


Realm of Eternity

by sv_you_know_who_I_am



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-16 13:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8103928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sv_you_know_who_I_am/pseuds/sv_you_know_who_I_am
Summary: ON HIATUSThe armies of Aelin Ashryver Galathynius are scattered and splintered, with tense alliances barely holding together in the absence of Rowan and their queen. Manon and Dorian are off searching for Crochans, Aedion is trying to keep Terrasen's armies together, and Rowan is in the middle of the ocean searching for his beloved. But the ultimate schemes of their foes are still unknown, and with enemies on every side, will the new alliances hold? And can a new Lock truly be forged to send Erawan out of the world for good?CURRENTLY ON HIATUS





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

The Heir of Fire was encased in iron and ash.

Locked in the dark, she burrowed down, down, down. Not into her magic, but into herself, into that being that was forged and refined in an unforgiving world. After scratching away with the little strength she had, bit by bit, she poked through the first layer of stony armor and buried herself within. The pain faded away--the raw flesh on her back was a memory, not a living torment that brutalized her. It remained like a signal, flaring in the corner of her mind to keep her aware, to remind her not to lose sight of her reality--for if she dug too deep, she might not find her way back out again.

She dropped down into that ashy chamber, barren and dead, massive and hollow. She could hear her breaths echoing in the dark recesses, steady as her slumbering heartbeat that thudded below her feet.

There was another layer yet.

She wanted to curl up and stop here. It was enough that she hurt less now. This was far enough to hide. But she knew that the wicked eternal being who held her captive now would be able to find her here. She had too many secrets to hide to risk being plucked out like a rabbit trying to burrow away from a fox. So she steeled herself and started scratching away at the ashen floor, the smoldering shell that warmed her feet. She had no magic here, even though this was where she had once kept it. She had to rely only on her own strength, her own will, to take her farther down.

She wasn’t sure how long she was scratching, scratching, digging. But soon she had opened up a tiny hole, and she wriggled one leg down inside, working the hole open until it was large enough for her slender frame to drop through.

Then she fell.

The breath was stolen from her lungs as she plunged down into open air, hair whipping up over her head like a golden flag. The world had become bright, so bright, as though she had climbed into the heart of a forge. It wasn’t until she heard the drumbeat that she realized she had done exactly that--only the forge was her, and the drumbeat was her own heart.

She did not crash onto the golden floor, but alighted softly, as though her lover’s gentle wind had broken her fall. The light had been blinding at first, but she adjusted to the burning brightness of it and looked up to see the hole she had made close over her head. She let out a long breath. She was safe for now. She knew this was a temporary hiding place, but if it could preserve her until she had a chance of fighting back, that was all she needed.

She gazed at the column of fire that thudded and writhed with her heartbeat. In the crackling of the flames, she could hear voices--names. Her names.

_Celaena. Lillian. Elentiya._

_Aelin._

Then, like a sigh, the most precious name of all: _Fireheart_.

Aelin tipped her head back and managed to smile at the peace that flowed over her as her true heart of fire breathed that name over her, caressing her skin with her mate’s voice. Then, swallowing over the profound thirst that gripped her throat, she plunged her arm into the column of fire and seized the cord she knew lay hidden deep inside.

And she _pulled_.

The screech of a hawk echoed in the chamber and Aelin began to cry. She gripped the cord as long as she could bear before she snatched her arm out of the fire and took three steps back, sinking onto the golden floor and staring into the light.

She stiffened as footsteps sounded on the floor behind her. She whirled around, but her small strength failed her and she crumpled. Her eyes fell on golden shoes and an ivory hem, and as she dragged her gaze up she crumbled even more, her tears coming with greater force.

“Why are you crying, Elentiya?”

“Nehemia,” Aelin croaked. “Are you really here?”

“I am where you have always kept me,” the princess of Eyllwe replied. “Deep in your heart of fire.” Her golden jewelry tinkled as she sank down to sit across from Aelin.

Aelin trembled and struggled to meet Nehemia’s eyes. “Have I come too far? Is there any going back?” Suddenly the thought of going back to the surface seemed like far too difficult a task. In this state, Aelin wasn’t sure she could accomplish it. “Have I failed at last?”

“You can go back,” Nehemia said. “Your fate is not yet as mine was. But you cannot go back as you are now.”

Aelin sucked in a trembling breath and nodded.

“This is not a refuge,” Nehemia continued. “This is a trying ground. Here you will have the borrowed time you wanted. Then, when you finally return, you can be the queen they need.”

“I wish it had been me,” Aelin whispered, the tear burning hot trails down her face. “You would have been better for them.”

“You know why it couldn’t be me.”

Aelin nodded, but then she paused. “Why endeavor to become a queen? I am destined to die. I . . . I have already ensured Terrasen’s future. They don’t need me.”

Nehemia shook her head. “Then you truly are a fool, Elentiya.”

Aelin’s head snapped up and she finally met her old friend’s eyes. “I have always been a fool. A foolish child pretending to be queen. A foolish child who should have died on that riverbank and paid the gods their price. If Elena hadn’t interfered . . . if she hadn’t saved me . . . then you would still be alive.”

“Still alive, perhaps, but still under Adarlan’s thumb. The gods care only for their own ends. They would leave Erilea behind in Erawan’s clutches without any qualms. Elena has made many mistakes. She has cost us both a great deal. But though she has written the past, she cannot write the future. And if I know anyone clever enough to defy the gods, Elentiya, it is you.”

The corner of Aelin’s mouth quirked up. “Defy the gods . . . I rather like the sound of that. If it can be done.”

“It can be done,” Nehemia said, “but not as you are now.”

“I am too weak,” Aelin sighed, her shoulders slumped. “Maeve has me, and she may still get what she wants.”

Nehemia shook her head. “That is not what I meant.”

Aelin raised her eyebrows.

“You have denied parts of yourself, Elentiya. You have done this before, with intention, but now it is simply out of misguided effort.”

“I don’t understand,” Aelin said, her voice tight.

Nehemia stood and gestured to the column of fire. “There is a reason your heart beats with all of your names. Because they are all a part of you. You cannot shed them like skins or fine dresses--they must all be a part of you, at all times. You are Aelin. You are Celaena. You are Elentiya. The Nameless One with many names. If you are to defy the gods . . . you must be all.”

Aelin gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, but she slowly rose to stand beside Nehemia. “But how?” she demanded. “I . . . I spent so long killing Celaena. I . . . I am not proud of who she was.”

“You might not be,” Nehemia said, “but I am. And so is he.”

Footsteps sounded behind them.

Despite the fire that surrounded and filled her, Aelin’s blood ran cold. “Please, no,” she whispered. “I can’t. I can’t look back.”

Nehemia’s face hardened. “You can, and you will. I told you this was a trying ground. What made you think it would be easy?”

“Please,” Aelin said again, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Turn around, Aelin,” Nehemia ordered.

Aelin didn’t move.

The figure behind them took three more steps. There was a shifting of fabric as though the person was stuffing their hands in their pockets. Then came his voice.

“And here I thought you’d _enjoy_ telling me to shove off again.”

A broken sob burst from Aelin’s throat and she whirled around before she could convince herself not to. Then, with hot tears still clinging to her lashes, she opened her eyes, fixing her gaze onto the warm, dark brown eyes staring back at her.

Her voice was small when she finally managed to speak.

“Hello, Sam.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

It had been a week since Eyllwe, and Aedion Ashryver was sick of ships. **  
**

He had been hewn in the mountains, tried in snow and upon rocky cliff faces. He had been on ships before, of course, but they were not home to him like the steep towers of granite that formed the Staghorn Mountains in Terrasen. The spine of his nation did not rock beneath his feet, never gave him pause to question if it would truly support him. And though the mountains had their own form of brutality, he would take them over the uncertain seascape any day.

It didn’t help that his entire world had been ripped out from under him, as well. The undulating waves were only a nauseating reminder.

Aedion rolled his neck and felt a satisfying _pop_ in his shoulder as he pulled away from the rail of the ship and stalked across the deck, daring anyone to cross him. He was beginning to feel like a beast in a cage, and only the slightest provocation would send him into a frenzy at this point. He’d managed to swallow his wrath for days now, enough to help delegate where their new forces would strike. Galan’s armada had proved to be . . . impressive. Aedion had little fear that they would make it back to Terrasen in one piece, even with witches patrolling the coast near Rifthold. And thanks to a nice long conversation with Manon Blackbeak’s Second before they had departed with the King of Adarlan, everyone in their group had solid insight into the flying witches’ weaknesses.

Attacking from a distance was their only certain shot.

They still had several days to prepare and train, and Aedion oversaw the sessions of the cobbled array of fighters. The Silent Assassins were . . . well, they had their name for a reason. Aedion was thankful that they spent most of their time on another ship, because he had been unsettled one too many times by watching them run nimble, barefooted laps along the rigging, no more than phantoms. Aedion was much more comfortable among the forces Ansel had rallied in Melisande. Their fighting style was familiar, something Aedion could get his teeth into. He ran drills with them periodically, either by going to their ships or having them aboard his, and it was perhaps the only thing that kept his edge dulled enough to get by without murdering anyone.

He tried to busy himself with training enough to keep from having to deal with Lysandra and Galan as much as possible. Galan did not know Aelin--it would be easy for Lysandra to fool him. But if Aedion was around . . . he wasn’t sure he could act as well as the shifter. And as much as Aedion hated the whole charade--it still made his stomach turn--he knew it was necessary. He knew Aelin had thought it up for a reason. So the war could go on when she was not there to lead it. So Terrasen could go on.

It didn’t help that his cousin was so gods-damned charming.

Perhaps if Aedion had been able to spend more time in court and less time on battlefields over the past ten years, he might have respected Galan’s earnest goodness and nobility. Aedion couldn’t tell whether his cousin’s manner was insincere or whether his own calloused background made him doubt any trace of honesty at this point. He remembered Galan vaguely from his childhood--he was older than Aedion by twelve years, closer to Aedion’s mother’s age than his own, and so his first cousin had not been a playmate during Aedion’s youth in Varese. He certainly hadn’t remembered any warmness from his cousin, which had made his reception in Orynth so much more a surprise and a gift. He had been more at home with his mother’s cousin Evalin and her husband than he’d ever been in Varese. He was far more a prince of Terrasen than a prince of Wendlyn, even if King Glaston was his uncle.

This was the only reason he was on this rotten ship at all. If he didn’t owe so much to Terrasen--if he hadn’t bled so much for it already--he would be in another part of the world entirely, tracking down the queen who was more sister to him than second cousin.

Aedion cast his face to the sky and murmured a prayer to whatever god was listening that Rowan would find her.

Aedion knew his role. He would fight for Terrasen, lead the armies that Aelin had provided him, and try--gods damn him, he had to _try_ \--to pretend that the shifter prancing around in his cousin’s skin was his true queen.

Aedion’s prowling across the deck was interrupted by one of Rolfe’s men. Aedion jerked his chin to indicate that he should walk and talk.

“Prince Endymion wants to meet to solidify strategies for the attack on Bellhaven, General,” the sailor said.

“I’ll head over in an hour,” Aedion grunted. Contrary to his opinion of Galan, Aedion found it easier to deal with Rowan’s Fae cousins. He could handle their manner, think along the same lines. And there was no personal history to interfere with business.

“The prince offered to come to you,” Rolfe’s man said, his wiry frame taking two steps for every one of Aedion’s.

“No,” Aedion said sharply. “I’ll go.” That had been the one rule established by Lysandra the moment they’d boarded the ship. No Fae could be allowed anywhere she was. It was simple--Aelin was supposed to be Rowan’s mate. Her scent would be twined with his, and Rowan’s Whitethorn cousins would notice the slightest variance. Lysandra could wear perfumes to fool the mortals, but the Fae would not be so easily tricked. They would know she was a shifter immediately, just as Rowan had. So Aedion acted as middleman, taking regular trips to the Whitethorn ships to negotiate and plan with Prince Endymion, Princess Semelle, and the other Fae soldiers.

The sailor nodded and ran off to relay the message, and Aedion busied himself surveying a nearby sparring session. His shoulders immediately tensed as someone called his named.

“Cousin!” Galan called, striding toward him with Lysandra-Aelin at his side. His gait was the epitome of Wendlynite grace, corded with the muscles of an experienced sailor. It pissed Aedion off just to look at it. Suddenly he was thankful for the excuse to head over to Enda’s ship later.

“Well met,” Aedion said with a nod. He offered Lysandra the gesture as well, though a muscle feathered in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. “How fare my cousins?”

“Well enough, though sick of sailing,” Lysandra said, and Aedion’s stomach turned at the precise imitation of Aelin’s voice.

Aedion managed to laugh and nod in agreement. “I’m of the same mind.”

Lysandra smiled just like Aelin. “Prince Galan claims the sea speaks to him more than land. I imagine we can thank Mab for that.” There was a flicker of wrath in her Ashryver eyes, and Aedion knew what she was thinking: Mab, Deanna, the Fae Queen-turned-goddess who had exacted such a price from Aelin to save them all. The knowledge that he was descended from her ached deep in his bones--he would carve out any trace of that relationship if he could.

“Perhaps,” Prince Galan replied, “but it is out of necessity as well. Someone had to defend Wendlyn again Adarlan.”

Aedion nodded, his jaw tight. There were so many things he wanted to say about the things Wendlyn had and hadn’t done over the past several decades, but now was neither the time nor the place. “I’d love to stay and speak longer,” Aedion lied, “but I have a meeting with Prince Endymion to go over our plans for when we pass Bellhaven in two days. We’re expecting to encounter more ilken and whatever those things were that attacked us in the Dead Islands.” Aedion saw Lysandra flinch but did not meet her gaze. He couldn’t think about that day, what it had done to him--to them. It didn’t matter anymore.

“I’d love to join you,” Galan said, his eyes hopeful. “I’ve been eager to see what the Whitethorns have at their disposal, and to better learn about what we may face.”

Aedion smiled with closed lips. “Certainly.” He idly twisted his wrist, resulting in more _popping_ sounds. Lysandra sneered. “I leave in an hour.” He couldn’t very well say no to the Crown Prince of Wendlyn. Even if he was Aelin’s general and commanded her forces, he still had to defer to matters of title, even if it gnawed at him to do so.

With a few more polite nods, Aedion stalked away, scowling at anyone who passed and cursing his gods-damned luck.

-

“Whitethorn! Get your feathered ass down here!”

There was a flash of light, a thud, and a glare as Rowan shifted and dropped onto the deck of the ship mere inches from Gavriel.

“Can I help you?” Rowan said, his voice low and lethal. His eyes flashed with barely-contained frenzy, and his smile was more terrifying than welcoming.

Gavriel had seen him in worse states and didn’t so much as blink. “You can only spend so much time in the sky, you know.”

“Try me,” Rowan growled, shoving past the other Fae and heading up to the prow of the ship. Lorcan sat there, nearly as motionless as the phoenix figurehead that hung below him. He had positioned himself there a day after the wyverns had departed and hadn’t moved except to eat and piss. Rowan was pretty sure he slept there, too. “Find anything useful to do yet?” he demanded of the older demi-Fae. He was only on board because of his tremendous magic, which might prove to be the other thing that could protect them from Maeve’s power. He was more useful here than anything else--or at least, Rowan had hoped he would be.

Lorcan barely turned his chin to look at Rowan. “You might be navigating, Whitethorn, but that does you little good if you have no idea where to navigate _to_.”

“Then enlighten me,” Rowan said through gritted teeth. He leaned against the rail and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Wherever Maeve has taken your queen, it won’t be seen with the naked eye--not even your hawk’s eyes.”

“Are you going to tell me something I don’t know, or are you just going to waste my time?”

Lorcan growled. “You can’t use magic to find her, either. At least, not in the traditional sense.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you really think that iron box is the first such contraption Maeve has come up with? Wherever she has taken the queen, it will be fortified with so much iron that it will be impervious to magical detection.”

“And you think she came up with such a place solely with the hope of containing Aelin? The box I can see, but a fortress?” Bile stung the back of Rowan’s throat.

Lorcan shook his head once. “Not just Aelin. We weren’t her only collection, Whitethorn.”

This caught Rowan’s attention. He shifted and leaned closer to Lorcan. “Say that again.”

“The demi-Fae who proved themselves at Mistward and the other training grounds . . . did you ever see them in Doranelle?”

Rowan frowned, rifling through his own memory. “We didn’t spend that much time in Doranelle.”

Lorcan just gave him a look.

“You’re saying she collected them and put them . . . where? In a museum? A trophy room?”

“Worse than that, I’d imagine. She’s not just going to waste magical potential like that. It factors into her plans somehow. Either to combat the Valg or for some other purpose. I couldn’t say.” Lorcan let out a long, growling sigh. “The way I see it, the only reason she would release Gavriel and I from our blood oath--the only way she’d be content to let our skills operate against her--would be if she has something else in place already.”

“A weapon?”

“Or weapons.”

Rowan swore and looked out over the water again. “So where is she keeping them? Where has she taken Aelin?” They’d been sailing east toward Wendlyn, though everyone aboard knew that Maeve wouldn’t take Aelin somewhere so obvious. But they had to start somewhere.

“It could be in the middle of the sea. It could be on top of a mountain. It could be in the clouds,” Lorcan mused. Rowan snarled at him--he was not in the mood for making light of the situation.

“How do we find it?” Rowan flexed his fingers. He was getting very close to pulling the words from Lorcan’s throat himself.

“Luck,” Lorcan said, “or ridiculous powers of deduction.” Rowan’s nostrils flared and Lorcan grinned, an expression which made his gaunt face look even more haunted. “Or,” he added quietly, “you can follow the bond.”

Rowan stiffened. “I would if I could,” he said in a low voice. He had been pulling on the bond that tied him to Aelin every day, almost every hour, hoping to get a response back. But he never had. He supposed the iron box was preventing her from even feeling him. He swallowed and pushed up from the railing. “If you come up with any better ideas, you know where to find me,” he said.

Rowan crossed the ship to find something to occupy him when a door to the cabin flew open and Elide Lochan came limping out. Her clever eyes instantly marked Rowan’s mood, but she did not cower away. Perhaps spending those unfortunate weeks in Lorcan’s miserable presence had prepared her for Fae tempers. She glanced once at Lorcan’s shadowy figure upon the prow, but she quickly looked away again. Rowan had not asked for details, but he respected Elide’s clear refusal to speak to Lorcan. Even without knowing their history, Rowan couldn’t blame her.

“Anything?” Elide asked softly, looking back to Rowan.

His demeanor softened. He was glad Elide was here--she was a reminder of what Aelin had sacrificed herself for, and Rowan admired her fierce determination. She was also the only person who made him want to act remotely civilized. “Not yet,” he replied just as softly. “I’ll tell you the moment I know anything.”

“Likewise,” Elide said. Rowan raised his eyebrows, and she went on, “I am blessed by the Clever Goddess . . . Anneith,” she said. “Sometimes she shows me the right place to look, or the right place to be.”

Rowan offered her a soft smile. “May her blessings continue to accompany us.” He looked the girl--woman--up and down. “Has she told you anything today?”

Elide squinted and looked off over the water. “Not especially. Though I have an odd sense that now would be a lovely time of day to fly.”

Rowan tilted his head, unsure of how to respond. Elide simply nodded at him and ducked back into the cabin. When she was gone, he shrugged. He had no reason to remain here, not until dinner was prepared. So he shifted and leapt into the sky, flapping his silver wings until he was coasting on the warm sea air, scanning and searching for anything that might lead him to his mate. His wife.

_Aelin. Fireheart._

Out of habit now, he tugged the bond between them. The little hope that had been spurring him on the past several days had been drained by his conversation with Lorcan, and he was not at all prepared when he felt a fierce pull deep within his being. It was so profound that he let out a hawk’s screech in response, flapping his wings rapidly to keep from falling out of the sky in pure shock.

His body veered toward the southeast. There. It had come from that direction. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he did. His mate was out there, and he would find her.

And together they would tear Maeve apart piece by writhing piece.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Chaol Westfall sat as straight as he could in his chair, his muscles tense and every nerve on edge as he wait for the arrival of Sartaq, the second son of the khagan and the heir to the Southern Continent. He had been waiting weeks for this moment--weeks of begging for an audience with the khagan, weeks of following leads and seeking potential allies among the ranks of the God City. But successes had been small, leading Chaol to become even more tense than usual--and according to Nesryn, that was saying something.

The soldier stood just behind him, her slender frame posed resolutely and her narrow eyes scanning the open patio upon which the khagan’s son had insisted they meet. Antica had proven to be just as glorious as Nesryn had described, and the intricate golden architecture all around them made Chaol keenly aware that he was in a different world. A beautiful one.

Sometimes before he fell asleep at night he pondered staying here forever. Leaving Erilea to its own ends.

But these thoughts were of a desperate, foolish man, and Chaol chastised himself for them. He had come too far to give up, and he had sacrificed too much for Erilea already. He had people depending on him. Dorian was depending on him.

Chaol’s stomach turned at the news that had recently reached them from Erilea. Rifthold had been seized by Perrington weeks ago. Dorian had disappeared. But he wasn’t dead--Chaol knew this in his bones. He was sure he would feel it in his soul if his brother left this earth. Dorian was too powerful and had come too far to be so easily eliminated. He was likely in hiding. Perhaps . . . maybe he had found Aelin. Chaol wasn’t sure if that was an improvement or not.

Chaol drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair as he waited for the prince-- _jinong_ , he corrected himself--to grace them with his presence. Jinong Sartaq had ten thousand troops at his disposal and was likely to take the khaganate after his father died. Other information about him was kept closely guarded, and even Nesryn’s most persuasive techniques had been unable to uncover much else about him during their time in Antica.

Chaol decided that he would not be intimidated by the enigmatic leader. Nor would he allow himself to be posed in a weaker position. “Nesryn, help me up,” he said in a low voice.

The soldier looked down at him, dark eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure?”

Chaol nodded. Nesryn pursed her lips but easily hooked her hands beneath Chaol’s arms to help guide him onto his feet.

Even this felt like such a victory.

His days since arriving in Antica had largely been split three ways--working with the healers of the Torre Cesme in the mornings, begging audience with the khagan in the afternoon, and rallying support and gathering information in the evenings. But despite weeks of therapy, even the great healers of the Torre Cesme had been unable to do much more than get some feeling back in his lower limbs. It was enough to know if Nesryn pinched his thigh or to know he had an itch, but much more than that was still out of his reach. Still, he had been practicing standing. The healers had commended his efforts to keep his muscles toned despite his injury, and they told him that this might make standing easier after their various therapies. But walking . . .

Walking was still a long way off.

Chaol had gotten drunk the day that they had given him the news--that if he ever did walk again, it would be after months or years of training. Even their magic, which could hasten the process, could not be a permanent solution. The body needed to heal naturally, and if even Rowan’s Fae magic couldn’t fix the finer details of the problem, the healing magic of the Torre Cesme couldn’t do much more.

It had infuriated Chaol that the healers had treated this like it was _good_ news. He had a war to fight! He had to defend his king. And he could only stand for a few minutes at a time before becoming so exhausted that he was bound to his chair for hours afterward. He’d locked Nesryn out of their rooms at the Torre Cesme and drank until he was seeing spots, and then he had chucked the largest of the bottles at the wall and smiled when it shattered.

Nesryn had been so furious she hadn’t spoken to him for two days after that.

“Self pity is disgusting, Chaol,” she’d said when she’d finally deigned to speak to him again. “You’ll never heal if you spend more energy being sorry for yourself than looking forward.”

Chaol hadn’t responded, even though he knew she was right. It would still take weeks to get back to Erilea. Maybe the healer’s timeline was wrong and he would be fit enough to be useful by the time they returned.

Chaol took a deep breath and settled his weight on his feet. The nerves in his thighs and calves barked at the exertion, but he was happy for the pain. It meant he could feel something. And that, at least, was more than he’d had before. He took in the view of the open room from a different angle, and his eyes fell upon what looked like a large map of the known world--the Southern Continent was the most detailed, but Erilea was there, too, along with Wendlyn and other continents that Chaol had only vaguely studied. This map was unusual, however, because was not flat--it was three-dimensional, with ridges for mountain ranges and scored flat surfaces for grasslands. Water was formed with proper ripples and tall walls marked borders between continents and countries. He was still studying it closely when there was a sound at the door.

“Introducing Jinong Sartaq, second son of the Great Khagan and Tumetu-iin [Noyan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noyan) of the Khoid, and his wife, Gonji Khordad, Khairt Edgeegch of the Torre Cesme.”

Chaol’s ears were still ringing with the complex titles when the doors swung open and two figures walked in, followed by a proper retinue dressed in bright colors. The jinong was dressed in golden armor with heraldic colors and a large sword at his waist, and his golden helm caught the sunlight streaming in front behind them. He was broad-shouldered but not tall, and he had a thin, long mustache that draped over his mouth on either side. He was far younger and handsomer than Chaol had expected--he had thought such a renowned warrior would be older.

He was even more startled by the gonji at his side. She was finely dressed in a patterned, layered coat embroidered with gold, and upon her head sat a tall cap with elaborate beading that draped over her shoulders. Her features were soft and young. She had to be Chaol’s age, or perhaps younger. But the most astonishing thing about her was not her age.

The gonji was not native to the Southern Continent. She looked . . . she looked like she was from Erilea.

Nesryn bowed deeply to the jinong and gonji as she and Chaol were introduced. Chaol managed a respectable nod, though his legs could not support him if he attempted a proper bow from the waist.

“Welcome to the God City, _dund humun_ ,” said the jinong to Chaol, his accent thick but understandable. “I understand you have been seeking my audience for some time.”

Chaol swallowed down the retort he longed to make. They had been here for weeks and were only just now making progress. He’d run through the bureaucratic mess of the khaganate and gotte nowhere, until now. “Yes, Your Highness,” Chaol said. “Has your council informed you of our reason for coming?”

Sartaq nodded grimly. “Dark things are happening in Erilea. I cannot say I am surprised. But how does this affect us?”

Chaol refrained from biting his lip. This was the question he had been prepared for. “The threat in Morath will not remain there. It is spreading throughout Erilea as we speak. The capital of Adarlan has been taken, and the capital of Fenharrow is still held, as well.”

The gonji, Khordad, let out a little gasp. Chaol kept his face neutral but marked the reaction. Perhaps he was not mistaken about her origins. He continued, “It is no mortal threat, but one from beyond this world. The Valg are here and are enslaving our people, forming armies. There are Ironteeth witches on wyvern mounts, and mortal soldiers enlisted to fight their countrymen.”

“Ironteeth witches on wyvern mounts?” Sartaq asked. “That sounds quite unbelievable.”

“I might agree if I had not almost died at their hands.” Chaol felt Nesryn flinch beside him.

“And you come to ask for my assistance?” Sartaq asked. “What can I do that you cannot accomplish on your own? Who are your leaders? I will not send my men to aid a fruitless rebellion.”

Chaol clenched his fist at his side. “I serve King Dorian Havilliard of Adarlan, who is currently working to undo the damage caused by his father, who was held in sway by one of the Valg in question.” Chaol took a deep breath. No need to mention that Dorian was currently missing. “Eyllwe remains in opposition. And . . . the Queen of Terrasen is raising an army as we speak.”

The smile Sartaq gave Chaol was unsettling. “This is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, returned from the dead? She whose fire burned the coast of Eyllwe and almost destroyed Skull’s Bay?”

Chaol tried not to let his shock show, but his face paled nonetheless. How did Sartaq have better information than he did? He gritted his teeth. “Aelin would have never burned Eyllwe. She was best friends with Princess Nehemia Ytger before the princess’s untimely death.” _Murder_. His fault, at least in part.

Sartaq smiled and nodded mildly. “Good. So my information was right.” Arm-in-arm with Khordad, he stepped over to the massive map Chaol had noted earlier. He traced his finger over the border of the khaganate and then into the Narrow Sea south of the coast of Eyllwe. “I have some shifters in my employ who informed me that a massive Fae armada appeared south of Eyllwe, engaged in a brief skirmish, and then vanished into thin air. It was they who set the fires along the coast--attempting to frame your ally, it seems.”

Chaol swallowed. Fae, trying to frame Aelin . . . he frantically searched his memory and remembered only one Fae name that Aelin spoke with wrath: Maeve. Why on earth would Maeve do such a thing? It was getting harder and harder for Chaol to pretend he had information, when he very clearly didn’t.

“I knew Princess Nehemia in my youth,” Sartaq said. “Her friendship with Queen Aelin is certainly noteworthy. But I do have to question what the young queen was doing in those ten years when Adarlan swept through Erilea and destroyed so many.”

Chaol took another deep breath and noticed that his legs were beginning to tremble. They would not last much longer. But he had been over this again and again--how to plead Aelin’s character to Sartaq when he was unsure of it himself. “I have not known Queen Aelin long,” Chaol said. This was true. He had known Celaena well, but Aelin was a new and different creature. “I knew her as Celaena Sardothien, an assassin-turned-slave who was selected as Adarlan’s Champion . . . but who refused to slaughter the king’s enemies and instead sent them out of Adarlan and faked their deaths. She . . . she is vicious and brutal. But her desire to serve and free Erilea is a deep well within her. She has allies from Wendlyn and across Erilea. Three years ago, beaten by Arobynn Hamel, she traveled through Innish and Yurpa to the Silent Assassins in the Red Desert. I am sure she plans to call upon their aid. And--”

The gonji held up a hand and Chaol froze. “You said she was in Innish three years ago?”

Chaol had been right. Sartaq’s wife was from Erilea--Fenharrow, if he marked the golden eyes and the accent right. “She passed through,” he said.

“Did she ever mention a barmaid she helped there? Who now owes her a debt?”

Chaol’s brow furrowed. “I . . . I do not recall.”

“But this former assassin . . . she is blond? With turquoise eyes ringed with gold?”

“The eyes of the house of Ashryver,” Chaol confirmed.

He swallowed as Sartaq said in a low voice, “Khordad?”

Khordad squeezed her husband’s arm. “I would never forget those eyes. I saw them every night when I went to sleep on the ship that brought me here, and every day since I have longed to find her and thank her for the gift. Without her, Sartaq, I would never had made it here to you.”

Nesryn cleared her throat and said, “You are from Fenharrow.”

Khordad nodded. “The name I bear now is not the name I was born with. I met Celaena Sardothien--for it must have been her--in Innish when I was out of money and unable to come to the Torre Cesme. She offered me a gift, though I doubt she ever suspected that the timid barmaid Yrene Towers would become the heart and eyes of the heir of the khaganate.”

Sartaq smiled warmly, though his shallow-set eyes were wide with amazement. Apparently his spies had not told him this. “Am I understanding you, beloved?” he asked her. “I have Aelin Galathynius to thank for the fact that you were there and able to save me after my brother tried to poison me?”

Khordad--Yrene--nodded. “It seems so. I might have been unable to save your eyes, but at least I still have the rest of you. I think it would be unfair to blame Aelin for that.”

Chaol jerked in surprise and it almost made his legs crumple beneath him. “Forgive me . . . your eyes?”

Sartaq smiled wryly and lifted his brows. “It seems I have become even more skilled at disguising it,” he replied. “I have not been able to see in almost two years. Though I thank the goddess Silba every day that, though I lost my sight, I gained so much more.” He laid his hand over Khordad’s on his arm and squeezed.

At this, Chaol finally had to sit down, Nesryn’s hand at his back to make the adjustment even smoother. This was not what he had expected at all. Aelin’s legacy reached even here, but for all that, the one hope he had been sent to retrieve was limited in a profound way. Chaol couldn’t even fathom it. How was it possible that Sartaq was still the heir of the khaganate? That his position hadn’t been usurped by the others who were likely vying for the honor?

Chaol’s body trembled after the exertion of standing, and he tried to fight past the heaviness that had settled over his heart. He had come here with two objectives--to be whole again and to secure an army that would save Erilea that would quench the threat in Morath.

All he had to show for it was a body that could barely stand and a blind commander with a barmaid-turned-healer for a wife.

This was not at all what he’d had in mind.


	4. Chapter 4

 

The column of fire pulsed a steady beat behind Aelin as she stared into the eyes of the first man she had ever loved.

It was Sam, it was Sam, it was Sam.

Whole, in one piece--not eviscerated as he had been the last time she’d seen him.

She hadn’t realized until seeing him now just how much his loss had broken her.

She hadn’t had time to process. She remembered the lethal rage that had consumed her then, the senseless thirst for vengeance that had her walking right into Arobynn’s trap and Farran’s clutches. But after that . . . she had shut down. She’d had no choice but to shut down in order to survive in Endovier.

She’d never gotten to mourn him properly.

That day in the cemetery with Rowan, she thought she had made her peace with it. She thought she had found closure. But seeing Sam now . . . it made her realize just how deep she’d buried that unhealed wound.

“I know I’m dashing, but you could pick your jaw up off the floor and say something,” he said, that beautiful smile lighting his features.

She closed her mouth and swallowed, her throat like sandpaper. “I’m sorry,” she

whispered. Tears burned in her eyes, and those two words were all she could manage.

Sam’s face softened. “I know. But it isn’t your fault.”

“I waited,” she choked out, her tears stinging like acid running down her cheeks. Maybe they were boiling and would leave scars. How appropriate. “I waited too long. I should have come after you. I should have listened and let us go sooner, never let you get tangled with--”

She was interrupted when Sam closed the space between them and seized her hands in his, holding them between their bodies. She whimpered at the familiar scrape of his callouses. “Aelin,” he said. Her true name on his lips was . . . unsettling. But calming at the same time, somehow. “I am not here to make you face your regrets. I am here to make you face your strengths. The ones you have let slip away.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, choking down some of her tears.

Sam smiled. “You are . . . you’re so much more than you ever dreamed. And as I recall, you were quite full of yourself already. I am so proud of you and all that you’ve accomplished. And I’m glad you’ve found your mate.”

There it was--the blessing Aelin hadn’t needed but a part of her had wanted. “I’ll always love you,” she said. It wasn’t an apology--just the truth. Even seeing Sam now, her heart of wildfire still beat for the Fae Prince at the other end of that bond. He was the one she had done this for. But Sam . . . he was the first. And that would never change.

“I know you will,” Sam said. “That’s why I’m even here. This is your heart--where you keep all those you’ve loved, down so deep we’ll never truly die. It’s only taken you until now to find us.”

“Rowan tattooed your name on my skin. And Nehemia’s.” And so many others.

Those marks were ruined now by Cairn’s whip. The vows she’d sworn to uphold, most of which she had failed to achieve--now they were stricken from existence. The thought made her stomach clench.

Sam seemed to read the anguish in her eyes. “No matter how skilled the artist, tattoos can be removed. And besides, they were only a decorative bandage.”

Aelin hissed and snatched her hands away, stung by his words. “They were more than that.”

Sam shook his head, a lock of his brown hair falling over his forehead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that they weren’t valuable. But Aelin, you locked us away deep in your heart and covered the wounds with salt and ink. You never let them heal. Wasn’t that one of the rules at the Keep? Survive the injuries, but always let them heal properly--or else they’ll only get worse and get you in trouble later.”

Aelin opened her mouth to argue but couldn’t find the words for a moment. “What am I supposed to do, then? Losing you--it destroyed me more than Endovier ever could. And losing Nehemia . . . that shattered me entirely. Those aren’t knife wounds or broken ribs or even scars from a whipping. My soul was in pieces. And I’m still not sure I’ve come back together again.” Rowan had pulled her from the darkness and begun the long task of helping her reassemble herself. But the journey wasn’t over, and Aelin wasn’t sure it ever would be.

“Look around,” Sam said, stepping back to gesture to the temple of ivory and gold that surrounded them, glowing in the light of her heart of fire. “Does anything here look broken to you?”

Aelin was quiet for a moment as she looked around, taking in the place properly for the first time. It was bright, and clean, and there were familiar carvings in the walls and on the pillars that lined the room. It wasn’t broken. It was strong.

It was her.

“In trying to move on from us,” Sam said, taking casual steps around the room, “you’ve locked away parts of yourself as well. You’ve lost sight of valuable lessons that we learned together--and parts of yourself that could make all the difference in the challenges you’ll soon face.”

Aelin considered his words. “Are you telling me to become Celaena again?”

Sam flashed a bright smile. “Well, I did like her an awful lot. But no, not exactly. Just . . . remember the things you knew when you were her. The things that made you a survivor.”

“Sam, I’m not meant to _be_ a survivor,” Aelin said, her jaw aching with tension. “I’m meant to be a sacrifice. I have to die to forge the Lock.”

“You’re absolutely sure of that?”

Even the column of fire went silent for a heartbeat.

“Sam . . . what do you mean by that?” Aelin asked, her voice low and desperate.

Sam held up his hands. “I’m here to help you, but I do not have all the answers.” He paused. “I mean, I have a _lot_ of answers, just not those ones.”

Aelin snorted. “Prick,” she muttered, and she smiled for the first time since seeing him.

Sam’s eyes glowed in the firelight. “I always loved your smile.”

Aelin’s heart squeezed.

Sam continued, “I’m not saying that you will or won’t die, Aelin. I don’t have that kind of knowledge. But I’m a bit surprised that you just took the gods’ word for it. Celaena wouldn’t have done that.”

Aelin straightened. She was going to argue, but then she realized he was right. “Oh,” was all she said. Celaena wouldn’t have taken anyone’s word for it. She hadn’t believed a thing until she’d seen it with her own eyes, and she wouldn’t have counted the witch glass as evidence enough.

“I rock your world, and all I get is ‘oh’?” Sam teased.

She flicked him a vulgar gesture.

“Isn’t it a sin to profane the dead?” Sam asked, stepping closer to her again.

“I’m already bound for hell, so I guess I’ll add it to my tab,” Aelin quipped.

Sam threw back his head and laughed, and for the first time in a long time, Aelin felt her heart lift. Like a cord binding her to the ground had snapped and given her a little bit of levity. It was so freeing. “You’re not bound for hell, Aelin. And even if you were, I’d feel bad for Hellas when you got there.”

Aelin grinned and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “My reputation tends to precede me.” She looked him up and down. “Any other wise words you want to impart, O Wise Master?”

Sam sketched a bow. “A few, actually, summed up quite nicely.” He fixed his gaze on hers. “You are not alone.”

Aelin felt the breath rush out of her and she gasped to regain it. “I know that,” she said.

Sam shrugged. “Yes and no. You have built yourself an incredible court, and raised an army. You have a mate and husband.” Sam’s eyes were copper coins glinting in the light. “Yet in your heart you feel alone. You feel insufficient. And you feel replaceable.”

Aelin almost staggered back. Each accusation was as though he was kicking her in the ribs as he had done so many times in their training sessions in the Assassin’s Keep. She couldn’t even muster a response.

“Why else would you have Lysandra take on your face for the rest of her life? If you thought you were valuable, you would not have made such a plan. You would have fought for Terrasen like you fought for me. And you would never force your cousin into such a position.” For the first time, anger pinched Sam’s features, and shame like ice water sluiced through Aelin’s veins. Horror--pure horror. She had not thought through what her plan would mean for Aedion--that she was essentially making him a whore to her court. Taking his choices away from him. She lifted her hand to her mouth and looked at Sam, the son of a courtesan, with shame in her eyes.

“I didn’t even think about it like that,” Aelin murmured. Sam opened his mouth but she raised her hand. “I know what you’re going to say. Celaena wouldn’t have forgotten.”

The sorrow that Sam’s presence had managed to alleviate sank down upon her shoulders once again. She fell slowly to her knees and then sat on the ground, curling her knees to her chest. Sam crossed the floor and lowered himself to sit cross-legged across from her.

“There are many things that you knew that you need to relearn,” Sam said gently. “That you can lean on people you trust and allow them to help you carry the burden. That you’re a _survivor_ , damn it, and you would carve your own eyes out before you let a sociopathic bitch keep you in a box. You were human when you survived in Rifthold all those years. Human when you trained among the Silent Assassins and freed two hundred slaves from Skull’s Bay and released an assassin from his debts. You were human when you survived Endovier and the king’s challenges and life in that hideous glass castle. And you were human when you brought the Assassin’s Keep to its knees and slew Valg and rescued your cousin. This box might stifle your magic, Aelin, but _that is not all you have_. Besides . . . didn’t Arobynn teach you how to escape exactly this kind of box during his psychotic training sessions?”

Aelin’s head snapped up and she met Sam’s eyes, her mouth dropping open--again. “I think he did,” she whispered.

The corner of Sam’s mouth lifted. “You’re far from out of hope, Aelin. It’s all right inside you. In here.” He tapped her temple with a finger. “And here.” That finger tapped her heart, and the column of fire behind them flared. “Don’t forget that. And don’t forget me.”

Aelin’s throat tightened. “I’ll never forget you, Sam.”

“Good. Because I want a city named after me in Terrasen.” He stood to his feet and offered her a hand.

“Cortlandia?” she asked as she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “Sam City?”

He grimaced. “You’ll have to work on it.” She giggled.

Sam looked over his shoulder and his expression became wistful. “I have to go, Aelin.”

She squeezed his hand. “Already?”

“Now that I’ve told you what I need to . . . there’s no reason for me to stay here.”

“Oh.” Aelin’s voice was small, but she understood what Sam meant. She had kept him in  her heart because a part of her had still needed him, and hadn’t faced what she’d known he would say if he was with her in the outer world. But now that she’d heard it . . . heard it, and listened . . . it was time for him to go.

She walked with him closer to the column of fire. “Thank you, Sam,” she said softly, holding his hand tight. “For everything. For existing.”

“It’s nice to know I made a difference,” he said.

She stepped in front of him. “You made every difference,” she said. Then, unable to contain herself for another moment, she threw herself into his arms. She buried herself in the smell of him--it clung to him, even here. She melted when he lifted his hand to the back of her head and stroked her hair. “Have a nice trip,” she said in a shaking voice as she broke away.

“See you in a thousand years,” he replied, and his smile was so beautiful Aelin could feel a torn part of her stitch back together inside. He kissed his fingertips and pressed them to her kiss, and sparks danced across her skin. “Tell Rowan thank you for me.”

Aelin stared after him as he walked to the column of fire that was the core of her soul. “I will,” she whispered.

She wasn’t sure if he heard her before he stepped into the flames and vanished forever.


	5. Chapter 5

If Manon had thought that the Ferian Gap and the mountains around Morath were the most miserable place she’d ever seen, the Bogdano Jungle easily proved her wrong.

It was swampy, disgusting, and so far entirely free of Crochans.

The humid air made her stomach churn and it was a constant battle to keep her moon white hair from plastering itself to her forehead. She eventually settled for a high topknot that kept any strands from her forehead. She had worried briefly that the look was too _human_ , but she decided she didn’t care.

She slapped her neck and squashed a mosquito that had foolishly decided to make her blue blood its meal, and then she licked the innards from her palm. Someone nearby made a sound of disgust, and she glanced over her shoulder at the King of Adarlan, who rolled his eyes and shrugged the pack he was carrying higher onto his back.

“When you’ve been an exile all your life, you learn to take what you can get,” she said with a smirk. “It’s no fine palace food, but . . .”

Dorian huffed and looked away, scanning their surroundings for signs of any Crochans. Manon tried not to laugh. Crochans were clever--they wouldn’t just show up in front of a horde of Ironteeth witches and wyverns. The tracking was up to them. Looking the king up and down, Manon wondered if he’d ever gone tracking before. She was sure he had hunted, though only small, harmless mammals that wouldn’t bite back.

Manon rolled her shoulders before swatting away another insect. “Want to make yourself useful, Your Majesty?” She gestured at the swampy air around them to indicate that his icy magic would be very nice at the moment.

Though Dorian said nothing, a chilled breeze caressed her neck and face, and beside her, Abraxos hummed in pleasure.

“You’re pathetic,” Manon mumbled at her wyvern. The beast only eyed her as if to say, _You’re the one who complained._

There was rustling in the trees ahead of them and Manon’s hand went to her sword, but her keen sense of smell told her in one whiff that it was Edda and Briar, along with her Second and Third. They touched their fingers to their brow and Manon returned the gesture.

“The Shadows caught a trail not far ahead. Fallon and Falline believe they caught sight of an outpost a few more miles in,” Asterin said. “Should we approach from the ground or from above?”

Manon tipped her head back to see Asterin’s mare and some of the other wyverns circling above. “The wyverns are doing their job of being intimidating. Go land them in the clearing where we spent the night. Then I want Asterin and Sorrel with me as I approach on foot. No weapons.”

Asterin shifted. “The outpost is well fortified.”

“No weapons,” Manon repeated. Their iron teeth and nails would be weapon enough if worst came to worst, but Manon was here to make peace, not war.

_A child of peace._

An unbidden shudder ran through Manon’s bones, but she was able to conceal it from her witches. She hadn’t entirely come to terms with everything she had learned in the witch mirror, but just as unease filled her bones, so too did truth. And . . . there was strange comfort in knowing that her parents had dreamed of more for her. Even if dreams were foolish and they’d only gotten themselves killed. Still . . . to have been wanted, hoped for. It was something more than what witches usually felt for their witchlings. To know that someone had not just wanted _her_ , but wanted her to change the world . . .

Well, she’d make sure their stupid dream came true.

She glanced at Dorian, golden eyes flashing in the dim jungle light. “You are welcome to join us, king. It may help our case if the Crochans saw you with us . . . alive.”

Dorian lifted his dark brows. “Is that the only reason I’m here, witchling? Because I’m useful to you?”

Manon’s eyes narrowed. “You made the decision to come. Should I not make use of you while you’re here?”

Dorian huffed, his eyes hard. Manon couldn’t read him at the moment, and she didn’t really care to. She had too much on her mind to worry about coddling his feelings. This would be her first test, after all--the first opportunity she would have to prove herself a Crochan Queen.

No one would ever know this, but Manon wasn’t sure she could do it.

Wing-Leader was one thing. Heir to the Blackbeak Clan, of course. But a queen?

Frankly, Manon wasn’t sure she had the temperament.

Still, she had little choice. If she was ever to get the Witchlands back, she’d have to stop Erawan. And the witch mirror had suggested that she had a far larger part to play in events than she had ever expected. If she was the last Crochan Queen, heir to Rhiannon Crochan’s power . . . she couldn’t simply stand aside and watch Erawan destroy her world before she’d ever known a lick of peace in it.

Besides, she thought, glancing at the human king again. There were some things worth saving.

-

Hours later, Manon, Asterin, Sorrel, and Dorian approach the outpost of the Crochans. It was an impressive construction, well camouflaged in the jungle trees. Wooden bridges stretched between tree houses nestled in the boughs, and everything was covered with so much foliage that any ordinary person could have walked right underneath the outpost and never known it was there.

But Manon was no ordinary person.

She had underestimated the king, too, because when they were still a mile out he lifted his head and began searching through the treetops. In her crabbiness she had forgotten his heightened senses--new with his ever-growing magic. His power. She suppressed a shudder as she remembered what that power had felt like within her.

None of her Thirteen knew yet, though she’d be surprised if Asterin hadn’t already figured it out.

It wasn’t as if it mattered much. Manon hadn’t so much as flirted with the king since they’d taken off from the Stone Marshes. The fate of Aelin Galathynius seemed to have sucked the desire for it right out of them. There were other things more important. Though Manon had to admit that she did enjoy the feeling of his arms around her waist as he rode Abraxos behind her.

Dorian was the first to point at a concealed treehouse in the canopy far above them. Manon knew that eyes were already on them, but unlike her previous Crochan hunts, she had no interest in hiding.

She planted herself firmly on the soggy, fungus-covered ground and stared up into the outpost. “My name is Manon Blackbeak and I come in peace.”

Riotous laughter broke out in the trees, and it took Manon a full moment to realize it wasn’t real laughter, but some kind of primate swinging through the trees nearby. When they quieted, a long silence hung in the air. No one responded. It was as though the outpost was abandoned.

“Are they there, king?” Manon asked through her teeth.

He nodded, narrowing his sapphire eyes. “Oh, yes.”

Manon sucked in a breath and tried again. “My name is Manon Blackbeak, daughter of the last Crochan Prince. I come in peace.”

Manon caught the flash of movement half a second before four arrows charged directly at them. They froze in the air with the mere wave of Dorian’s hand.

“I don’t recommend doing that again,” he said, his voice carrying through the trees even though he kept it smooth and calm. “I am Dorian Havilliard, the King of Adarlan, and I haven’t yet had the chance to produce any heirs.” He glanced at Manon and she felt her cheeks grow warm. “The alternatives to my reign are not pleasant.”

There was a creaking sound from somewhere deep within the trees. Manon didn’t mark any movement until four figures emerged from the tree trunks before them, walking out of them as though they had been one with the trees themselves. They were clothed in flowing robes of mottled green and brown--the fabric clung to their beautiful immortal frames, showing their generous curves and great swatches of their skin. The red cloaks were missing, but Manon supposed they did not make for good camouflage.

The four witches were roughly the same height--the one that kept a step ahead of the others had pink-toned skin darted with a constellation of freckles and other marks. Thick blond hair fell in waves over her shoulder, and the gold flecks in her eyes made an interesting combination with the primary blue color. The one to her right was far taller and leaner, her expression cautious and guarded, though Manon could detect the threatening glint in her mottled eyes. The other two on the blonde’s left were of average height, but they both had features that seemed as though their human fathers had come from the Southern Continent--supple mahogany skin and ebony black hair that was tucked in tight pleats behind their ears. One was stoic and watched the pending exchange closely, while the other rippled with energy, practically bouncing on her heels as her dark, gold-flecked eyes darted from witch to witch and then landed on Dorian.

She grinned in delight. “Oh, he’s pretty! Can I keep him?”

Manon growled and the anticipation in the air snapped like a catapult. The tall lean one pressed her lips together and looked sideways at the energetic one. “Didn’t I say ‘intimidating’, Nyx?” she murmured, displeasure narrowing her eyes.

Manon looked the group over again. The energetic one was clearly young, likely born right before magic had left Erilea. Manon couldn’t even tell if she’d had her first bleed. Why would they bring her out with older witches?

Manon’s musing was cut off when the blonde addressed her. “I am Calliope Morana. These are my sisters--Nyx, Sakuya, and Cillían. What are you doing in our jungle?”

Manon crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t realize it had your names on it.”

“Funny, coming from an Ironteeth,” Calliope quipped. Manon only shrugged. “Why are you here?”

“To make peace.”

Cillían and Sakuya snorted, and Calliope frowned. “Give me one reason why we shouldn’t just kill you all for trespassing.”

“Not the king!” Nyx wailed, leaping forward as though she was going to protect Dorian from the Crochans. Sakuya snatched her wrist and held her back.

“Perhaps because I’m the heir of Rhiannon Crochan and am the last surviving witch of her line,” Manon said, rolling her neck as though she was not currently facing four potentially deadly Crochans.

“Please,” scoffed Calliope.

“I cry.”

Calliope and the other Crochans froze. Nyx looked over her shoulder and saw another Crochan, one that was far older, shuffling toward them. Calliope glanced down in deference, though she kept one eye on the visitors at all times. “Granny,” she murmured.

Manon raised her eyebrows.

“Witches, why are you letting them stand out in the cold?” the old Crochan tutted. Manon scowled. ‘Cold’ was the last word she would use to describe this jungle. “Bring your family inside.”

“Granny . . .” Calliope said. “You mean . . . she’s telling the truth?”

Granny didn’t answer and instead shuffled up to Manon and snatched her hands into her grip. Dorian reached out to shoo her away, but Manon shook her head. The older woman--not a crone, but certainly the oldest of the Crochans they’d seen so far--looked like Nyx and Sakuya, though her hair was brown instead of black and was tied in a low bun. She peered at Manon through her brown-gold eyes and nodded sagely. “Rhiannon’s sister . . . the last Rhiannon’s descendant. Idwal and Braith’s daughter.”

Manon took a step back and ripped her hands out of the old woman’s.

She’d never been told her parents’ names. Not once. And hearing her sister’s name . . . the name of the sister she’d killed . . . it made her stomach turn.

She felt a hand on her elbow and looked at Dorian, but his hands were firmly in front of his body, palms spread forward to display that he was unarmed. But she did feel his touch. That clever magic of his.

“Bring them inside,” Granny said. “Make tea. This is going to be a fun little chat.” She turned and walked away without so much as a careful glance back. Manon and Dorian locked eyes for a moment, but they broke eye contact when Calliope cleared her throat and gestured for them all to follow her. Sakuya moved to the left of their group, while Cillían and Nyx moved to the right. Nyx sidled up to Dorian and gave him a flirtatious grin so silly Manon wanted to bare her iron teeth.

But that likely wouldn’t earn them any favors.

So, with an encouraging nod at her Second and Third, Manon followed the Crochans into their jungle compound.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Rowan laid on his back in his bed. His eyes were closed, but he could not sleep.

It had been almost impossible for him to sleep in a bed since Aelin was taken. He’d taken instead to remaining in hawk form and perching on one of the masts outside, letting the sea winds soothe him to sleep as it rustled his feathers.

Only the rough weather they’d come upon had convinced him to come to sleep inside, and though the rocking of the boat troubled him, the lightning that flashed when his eyes were closed never failed to jolt him awake and send him twisting to find his burning wife beside him, lit ablaze by some nightmare or other.

But when he turned and reached across the bed for her, she wasn’t there, and when he opened his eyes, he saw only darkness.

His fingers clutched the sheets, his knuckles paling as he swallowed over his tight throat. This was worse--so much worse than when she had been in Rifthold and he’d been left behind in Wendlyn. At least then, he’d known where she was and what she planned to do. He’d known then that she might be in dangerous situations, but she was on home turf and he knew she could handle herself.  

Now he had no idea what had become of her. All he knew was that she was alive--and this he knew by the white-hot burn that had shot through him when she had tugged on the bond between them.

With a groan, Rowan sat upright, the sheets draping over his knees as the bent before him. He laid his arms over his knees and hunched his shoulders, breathing deep to ease the profound terror and woe that plagued him day and night. Pushing back the darkness that crept up on him when his Fireheart wasn’t there to light his path.

He had walked for centuries in that darkness. He would not go back.

No, he would endure for his Aelin. For his mate. _His mate._

Rowan’s throat felt like parchment as he pondered over Maeve’s revelation. That she’d always known who Aelin who be to him, who they’d be to each other. And she’d broken him. Every agony he’d suffered after Lyria’s death had been _planned_.

Rowan’s fists clenched. He would tear that bitch limb from limb for everything she had done. To Lyria--to his child. HIs stomach clenched.

His unborn child.

The morning Aelin had vomited up her guts in the cabin, after she’d revealed that she hadn’t been taking any tonic to prevent pregnancy . . . it had awakened in Rowan a primal terror he hadn’t known since the day he’d gotten the news that Lyria . . .

He’d never given himself license to think about that child. About what they might have become. And the thought of Aelin being pregnant, of going through that earth-shattering loss again . . . it had rendered him speechless. A black wind had roared through him as unbidden images of losing her, losing another child, flashed through his mind.

He had failed Lyria. But he would not fail Aelin.

The gods could all be damned. He was not losing his mate. Even if it meant he had to pay the cost himself. Even if he had to walk through a Wyrdgate himself just to get her back after the gods had taken her . . . whatever it would take. But he would have those thousand years with Aelin.

He figured he rutting-well deserved it. She did too, for that matter.

Rowan tried swallowing past his thirst, but his tongue was like a slab of sandpaper. He stood from the bed, his trousers slung low over his hips. He held his breath as he rustled the sheets and a heart-wrenching scent rose from them. Aelin. They still smelled like Aelin.

He ran his hand over his face and tried to calm his breathing as he thought of all the ways he’d claimed her in this room, all the ways she’d claimed him. How he ached for her touch again. He sent a pulse down the bond, anything to soothe the need in his bones, and walked over to the water basin, splashing water over his face before taking a long swing from a mug.

He’d just set the mug down again when he caught a new scent--not new to him, but new to this ship, to this place. He tilted his head and sniffed again, but before he’d even finished processing he seized his bow and arrow from the corner where they sat and charged out of the cabin. As he passed he banged on the door of Lorcan’s cabin and Gavriel’s, and then he bolted up the stairs onto the deck where the rain still pelted.

Sailors on night duty were managing the rigging with little problem despite the rain, but when they saw the shirtless Fae warrior appear on deck, some of them froze and stared. Rowan’s attention was not on them, however. His eyes peered through the pelting rain, blinking through a flash of lightning, and then he saw the silhouette.

It was tiny, though still slightly larger than his hawk form.

An osprey. Vaughan.

Lorcan spotted it at the same time he did and swore low in his throat. The osprey let out a screech and Rowan shoved the bow and arrow into Gavriel’s hands before shifting in a flash and leaping into the sky.

Piercing through the rain, Rowan flew straight at the osprey to strike him down. Vaughan was still bloodsworn to Maeve, and if he got away he could report their location to the Fae Queen.

But he also might know where Maeve had taken Aelin.

Rowan swooped toward Vaughan, talons outstretched, and spread his silver wings wide as he collided with the osprey’s chest. Vaughan was ready and locked talons with Rowan. Both beat their wings frantically while they clawed at each other, but they were losing altitude fast. Rowan heard Lorcan order Gavriel to shoot, but the Lion held back, waiting until he was certain he would hit Vaughan and not Rowan.

Rowan swiped at the osprey’s head and made his mark, his talon cleaving a gash in the side of Vaughan’s head. The osprey let out a wild shriek and spasmed, and before he could regain control, Rowan shoved away from him, leaving him falling through the sky on his own. Gavriel’s arrow barreled through the rain and struck true, and Vaughan went completely limp as he dropped through the sky.

Rowan made for the deck, creating a tunnel of wind for Vaughan to direct his unconscious body and keep it from falling in the ocean. When Vaughan touched the deck, he shift back, his limbs thudding onto the slick wood. Lorcan slung the limber Fae over his shoulder mercilessly and headed back indoors, Rowan and Gavriel on his heels.

As they walked through the corridor, a door opened and Elide limped out, her dark hair a curtain on either side of her pale face. She froze when she saw Lorcan with the bloody body, and something like disdain crinkled her features.

“Elide,” Lorcan grumbled.

Elide slammed the door in his face.

He shrugged Vaughan’s body up higher until they got to a larger room and laid Vaughan’s body across the table. Rowan made quick work of removing the arrow while Lorcan retrieved iron restraints for his wrists and ankles. Vaughan was descended from Mora like Rowan, though his line was not quite as pure nor quite as powerful. Still, power over wind could cause a significant amount of trouble on the seas if they did not restrain him.

Vaughan’s healing worked quickly, and despite the irons he was soon conscious again, blinking blearily as he processed his surroundings. When his eyes passed over Rowan, Lorcan, and Gavriel, he smiled and shook his head before laying back on the table. “Well, at least I know I’m in the right place,” he muttered. “Is this Castaway Cove?”

Lorcan growled and made to prod him in his fresh injury, but Gavriel held back his hand. “What are you doing here, Vaughan?” Gavriel asked in a level voice. “We thought Maeve had sent you north.”

Vaughan smirked, his wide mouth twisted wryly. “She did. And she sent me east. And west. And south. She sends me everywhere.”

“Why is that, exactly?” Gavriel asked. “None of us were ever sure.”

Vaughan scoffed. “Funny. You think I’d tell you.”

Rowan whipped a dagger out and stabbed it into the wood beside Vaughan’s head. “Want me to give you a matching scar, Vaughan?”

“Nice to see you too, cousin,” Vaughan sighed. “For what it’s worth, I’m not here on Maeve’s orders.”

The others exchanged wary glances. “We’ve no reason to believe that,” Gavriel said. “And I would be very surprised to hear that she hasn’t got what’s left of her guard on a tighter leash now.”

“After what you all did? I agree,” Vaughan said. “But unlike some of you morons, I have never given her a reason to doubt that I’ll always come home.”

“Like a good little birdie,” Lorcan spat.

Vaughan’s face hardened. “She doesn’t watch me. Not like she watched you. Or the twins. Definitely not like she watched Whitethorn.” Vaughan’s tawny eyes met Rowan’s green ones. “She doesn’t know I’m here.” He didn’t bother looking at the others as he stared at Rowan, almost begging for his trust. “Rowan,” he whispered hoarsely. “I know where she is.”

Rowan’s dagger shoved clean through the table down to the hilt. He couldn’t breathe. He leaned close to Vaughan’s face, baring his canines as he growled, “You had better not be lying.”

“I’m not,” Vaughan whispered. “You wonder why I’m never around, Lion? I’m out getting Maeve’s information. And along the way I learn things I shouldn’t. Things that you probably want to know.”

A heavy silence fell over the room as the allied Fae warriors considered Vaughan’s words. “What assurance do we have that you won’t lead us into Maeve’s clutches? That you won’t turn on us the second it’s best for you?”

“I’m still bloodsworn to her,” Vaughan admitted. “But so were you when you went to help the young queen. I will do what I can to help you until she forces me otherwise.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Rowan demanded. “What could you possibly have to gain?”

Vaughan gritted his teeth. “We all know that Maeve is black. Hell, I think we all knew it when we swore the oath to her, and we didn’t care. But she’s more than just wicked. I know what she wants the Wyrdkeys for, and why she wants your mate. And _she must be stopped_.”

Rowan’s blood chilled at the earnestness of Vaughan’s words. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Vaughan closed his eyes and swallowed. “I found my mate,” he said, his voice cracking. “A bright and beautiful young thing far in the south of Wendlyn. They have raw magic. We met . . . two years ago, when they came through Mistward and Maeve--” Vaughan choked and took a moment to composed himself. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on Shea what they were to me. And Maeve knew, too. But that didn’t stop her from taking Shea away less than a year after they’d been in Doranelle, and ordered me not to go follow after.” Vaughan’s fists were clenched on the table and his knuckles had turned white.

“I remember a Shea,” Gavriel murmured. “She wasn’t there for long--”

“ _They_ ,” Vaughan corrected with a growl. “Shea is not your ordinary Fae female. They are their own being, their own person, not subject to the rules we all know so well. They’re perfect.”

“They’re your mate,” Rowan said quietly. “Of course they’re perfect.”

Vaughan reached out and snatched Rowan’s wrist. “I’ve been searching for them ever since, learning what I could while I was on Maeve’s missions. And the trail of all those powerful people Maeve summoned to Doranelle and that disappeared soon after? It leads in this direction. To an island in the middle of the Wild Sea.”

Lorcan swore under his breath. The Wild Sea. The collection of waters where the Narrow Sea and the Great Ocean met the Iron Ocean, which stretched along the east of the Southern Continent. The tides crashed together in senseless patterns there, making navigation deadly and whirlpools frequent. “There are no islands out there,” Lorcan grunted.

“None that’s charted,” Vaughan confirmed. “But Maeve has an outpost there. The island itself may even be of her design. It’s built entirely out of iron, and it’s where she’s been sending all of her prized collection. Shea is there, along with some of the other gifted demi-Fae who proved themselves at Mistward and the other fortresses. It’s likely where she’s taken the Queen of Terrasen, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Gavriel said. “Why would she take powerful magic wielders to an island of iron? Yes, it would contain them, but how would she tap into their powers? How would she use any of her own?”

Vaughan winced. “Maeve is immune to iron.”

“Impossible,” Rowan snarled.

“It’s true. And it’s only one of her great secrets.” He sighed. “As for Shea, and likely Aelin, I imagine she’s trying to find a way to overcome that weakness--grant them an immunity to iron like the one she possesses.”

Lorcan sat back in his chair. “Why does that _not_ sound like a good thing?”

“Maeve doesn’t exactly have the most . . . _noble_ techniques.”

Rowan snarled and stood to his feet, unable to keep his frantic energy still for one moment long. He paced back and forth as he processed this news. Whatever Maeve wanted with Aelin, with the Wyrdkeys . . . it couldn’t be good. And if Vaughan was right and she was running some sort of sick experiment . . .

The thought made his blood boil.

“Please,” Vaughan said, his voice small. “Will you help me? I need my Shea. I have to get them away from Maeve. And . . . I know more. So much more. I’ll tell you everything if you’ll just let me help you, and help me in return.”

Rowan glanced at Gavriel, whose mouth was set in a line. “I don’t see that we have much choice, Rowan.”

Rowan huffed. Of course they didn’t. If Vaughan was mated, he knew what this was like. And the way he spoke about Shea . . . it was the manner of a desperate man. One who would risk the wrath of Maeve to save the person he loved. He and Rowan were bonded in that. “Very well,” Rowan said, fixing his steady gaze on Vaughan. “Just know that if you double-cross us, I’ll have no trouble giving you a matching scar . . . or plucking out every feather of yours and making a pillow for my queen out of it.”

Vaughan let out a breathy laugh and nodded before his eyes drooped shut and he began to fade into unconsciousness once more. His words were muffled as he said, “I would expect nothing less, Prince.”


	7. Chapter 7

 

Elide had listened to the entire conversation between the Fae warriors after they had stalked by with their bloody comrade in the middle of the night. She had been unable to go back to sleep afterwards, after seeing Lorcan with that body slung over his shoulders. **  
**

She cursed herself. She should have known what he was from the start. She _had_ known, and she had let her innocence get the best of her.

 _Innocence_.

Elide had not felt innocent in a decade. And despite the hell that had been Morath and the trip to Eyllwe to find Aelin, Elide had finally begun to feel strong, too. That was _hers_ , she told herself. Lorcan had nothing to do with that.

Even if she still felt the weight of his body pressed against hers when she laid on her back in her bed. His phantom lips on hers.

That _bastard_.

Being on the same ship with him was torment, when she wanted to leap across the deck and claw his eyes out whenever she saw him. Perhaps that was her witch blood. It was the least he deserved for selling them out. For selling out Aelin, the one person he knew Elide was desperate to find. If he’d cared about Elide like he suggested . . . he wouldn’t have let that bitch queen take Aelin away. Her only hope--the one thing besides her own will that had helped her survive all these years. She wanted to scream at Lorcan, demand why he had taken that away from her, but she could hardly look him in the eye without wanting to spit at him.

It didn’t help that the rocking motion of the ship made it even more difficult for her to walk. She would think that she finally had the grasp of it and then the ship would lurch and she’d go flying into the nearest doorframe or wall. So she’d used this excuse to stay in her room most of the time.

She’d wondered for a time why she hadn’t gone with Manon instead, but she knew that doing so would feel like going backwards instead of forwards. Forward was Aelin. Forward was her queen. And if the last months had taught her anything, it was that she was incapable of nothing, and that she would do anything to have a home again, even if fighting for it killed her.

_I wanted to go to Perranth with you._

Elide cursed under her breath and rolled over in her bed, blinking away a flash of lightning from outside. The new Fae warrior intrigued her, and it seemed he had said something to gain their trust. Something about his mate. Elide knew little about Fae and their mates, but she had seen how Rowan had acted in the past week, since she had told him what Maeve had revealed. He was a male who would walk off the end of the earth if it meant saving Aelin, and that was the kind of person Elide would be willing to follow.

Not someone who groveled like a dog at the ebony skirts of a monster.

Elide fell into a fitful sleep, and it wasn’t until after she had wandered out for breakfast the next morning that she felt the clever goddess calling her attention. No distinct word this time, only a strong notion--that she should go speak to the male that had boarded their ship in the middle of the night.

Elide looked over her shoulder to see if Rowan or Gavriel--or, gods forbid, Lorcan--were nearby to stop her. She saw them nowhere, and so she limped along the swaying corridor to the tiny room where they had stuffed the warrior after he’d passed out the night before.

The Fae male was stretched out on the narrow bed, his limbs long and lanky, his bare feet seeming almost too big for his body. He was not beautiful in the way the others were beautiful, and his body seemed built for speed rather than brute strength. No barrel-chest on him--just tense, corded muscles made for efficiency and nimbleness.

Elide rapped her knuckles on the doorframe to make him aware of her presence, though she was sure he’d smelled her coming.

He blinked one eye open and dragged himself into a sitting position, his amber-brown eyes observing her keenly. His hair was long and tied into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and its color was like salt and pepper--mostly light brown with shocks of white darted throughout. He looked her up and down and lifted his eyebrow with a smirk. “Ah, cousin. Pleasure to meet you,” he said, his voice reedy and smooth.

“I have no cousins,” Elide said mildly, knowing he was simply trying to trip her up.

“Except your witch friends,” the Fae male corrected.

“Except them.” Elide limped across the room and set the jug of water she was carrying on the table beside the bed. Then she moved to the chair positioned by the bed and sat down, not bothering to be invited. She eyed the iron cuffs around the Fae male’s wrists and suppressed a flinch as she felt the phantom chains around her ankles. But she wouldn’t be persuaded to take them off of him. She’d overheard Rowan reminding the others about the threat his magic could pose. Elide had a hard enough time walking--she didn’t care to find out if swimming would be just as difficult.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” the Fae male asked. He cocked his head. “I am Vaughan, by the way. You are?”

“Elide Lochan. Do you have a surname?”

“Windcrest,” Vaughan answered with a shrug. “Not that it matters much, since I never see my family.”

“You said you knew things about what Maeve is planning,” Elide said, cutting straight to the chase. “I want to know.”

Vaughan chuckled. “Why would I tell a young witchling anything?”

“No reason. Only, you have a history with everyone of importance on this ship, except me. I mean absolutely nothing to Maeve. You can give me information and not be punished for it because I don’t matter one wit to her. I’m human--mostly, anyway. Entirely inconsequential. So what I know or don’t will not matter, either.”

Vaughan stared at her for a long moment, bemused and impressed despite himself. “You’re a bold little creature, aren’t you? Shea would like you.”

Elide nodded, her only acknowledgement of the compliment.

“You could tell the others everything,” Vaughan remarked.

“And your conscience would be clean. You would be able to honestly tell Maeve that you revealed nothing to them. It’s too easy, honestly.”

Vaughan grinned, and then winced as the movement stretched the taut, fresh scar across his face. “Never mind Shea. _I_ like you.” He shifted on the bed. “No one put you up to it, either, I can tell. None of those brutes are so clever. Well . . . where would you like to begin?”

“How much do you know about what has been going on in Morath?” Elide asked. “About the experiments that are going on there?”

Vaughan frowned. It clearly wasn’t the sort of question he’d expected. “Not much,” he admitted. “Only that every one of them has been a failure in one way, shape, or form so far.”

“They don’t seem like failures.”

“The ilken are powerful and useful, but they certainly were not the intended outcome. What have _you_ seen there, Elide?”

“Black stones--obsidian. Sewn into bodies. Rings and torques of obsidian. The Valg inhabit the black stones and seep into the skin to corrupt the host. Their eyes turn black. Black like your queen’s.” Vaughan’s head snapped up, his mouth falling open. Elide pressed on. “I have never seen eyes as black as Maeve’s except in the Valg. And perhaps I am a foolish, paranoid girl, but I think there’s a connection. I think there’s a reason that Maeve seems entirely unconcerned with Erawan and what he’s doing.”

It didn’t make sense to her that a being as powerful and wicked as Maeve would not be at all threatened or concerned with the greatest demon that had ever roamed Erilea. She wanted the Wyrdkeys, and she wanted Athril’s ring. The golden ring that still caressed Elide’s finger--the one Lorcan had given to her and that Maeve had somehow forgotten to retrieve in her glee at trapping Aelin. She’d gathered from the others what the ring did, and she knew it now made her the only one immune to the Valg. It was a small comfort.

Maeve wanted to wield Aelin and the Wyrdkeys, but she wanted to be protected from the Valg while she did it. Unless she wanted the ring for another reason--perhaps to prevent anyone from becoming immune to the Valg? There were too many shifting pieces for Elide to put together, and the whole picture still eluded her, but sometimes she saw the Clever Goddess in her dreams at night shifting the pieces into new places so that Elide might come to new conclusions in the morning. Vaughan might be the piece that helped bring it all together.

Vaughan cleared his throat. “I always thought I gave humans enough credit, but I believe you’ve just proved me wrong.” He grimaced and said, “I have no information about why Maeve is not concerned with Erawan, but there are some things I know. She is immune to iron, she has been collecting powerful Fae and demi-Fae for ages now, and she wants those Wyrdkeys. She’s going to remake the world in her image . . . and it will be far darker for it.”

“You told the others last night that she may be trying to make Aelin and the others immune to iron. How does she plan to do that?”

Vaughan’s expression darkened. “Just as Erawan has been running his experiments, so too has Maeve. Only hers tend to have fewer side effects.”

“Erawan wants to bring the other Valg kings into this world. He had hoped the Valg blood of the Ironteeth witches would do it, but that failed.”

Vaughan nodded grimly.

“Aelin would never serve Maeve willingly. She can only be contained by iron. It seems nonsensical to try and make Aelin immune to iron and risk her rebellion.”

“Unless whatever Maeve did to bring about that immunity made Aelin a little more . . . pliable.”

Elide’s stomach turned, and she knew it had nothing to do with the lurching ship. “I can’t sort it out,” she admitted.

Vaughan sighed and leaned back against the headboard. “It’s because you’re working from the wrong end.”

“What do you mean?”

“Get comfortable, witchling. I have a story to tell you. A very, very old story.”

Elide listened.

-

Lorcan had been prowling through the corridors, hoping to interrogate Vaughan some more, when he froze outside the door at the sound of a soft, gentle voice.

Elide’s voice.

The sound of it made the hair on his arms stand up on end. She hadn’t spoken to him once since Eyllwe, and he had not realized just how badly he had missed the clever words pouring from her lips. He had noticed the ache in his soul every time she accidentally caught his eye, only to glare and instantly look away again.

She would never forgive him. And he didn’t expect her to.

But damn if her silence wasn’t slowly rotting him from the inside out.

He never expected to get back the strange new thing that they had cultivated in those weeks together. He knew he had ripped that up by its roots and drowned it in Eyllwe’s waters. But if she would at least _talk_ to him again . . .

His heart stopped as he heard the words that fell from her mouth. _I’m human--mostly, anyway. Entirely inconsequential._

Did she really believe that? Did she really think that he would shred his soul and betray everything for something that was inconsequential?

Lorcan snarled and prowled away from the door to go find something useful to do below decks.

Nearly two hours later, Lorcan walked past again and realized that Elide was still in Vaughan’s room. Whitethorn had just passed by and Lorcan silently gestured at the door. Rowan nodded, seeming unconcerned, but that did little to put Lorcan at ease. Vaughan might be wearing irons, but he was still powerful. And Elide might be the smartest person he knew, but that didn’t make her a match for Vaughan.

Still, Lorcan could see the change in Vaughan. A mated male, separated from the person he loved. He was no longer the erratic wild wind that Lorcan had once known. Being mated had changed him, just as it had changed Rowan.

The old Lorcan would have thought it pathetic. But now he knew he was the only pathetic one.

Lorcan looked up as the door creaked open and Elide limped out, totally unharmed. The relief that surged through his blood was nothing short of breathtaking. Her scent wafted up to him and he had to clench his fist at his side to keep from reaching out to touch the soft skin of her face, her silken curtain of dark hair. She glanced his way once before walking in the other direction, but he couldn’t stop himself from calling out, “Elide.”

She froze. She didn’t keep walking. Lorcan silently praised whatever god was responsible. He did not step any closer, not wanting to push his luck, but he said, “Do you mean what you said? Do you really think you’re inconsequential?”

Elide was silent for a moment and he knew she was debating whether or not to answer him. “How long were you listening?”

“Only for a moment. I know how to mind my own business.”

“Could have fooled me.” The words had a sharp edge to them, and Lorcan took the blow.

“Do you really think that, Elide?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, her face obscured most of her face, but he could see her biting her lip. “No,” she said. His heart relaxed a fraction. “I am inconsequential to _Maeve_. I only mattered to her so long as I mattered to you, and so long as you mattered to her.”

Lorcan’s voice was only a breath as he whispered, “You still matter to me.”

Elide let out a disgusted noise and shook her head as she looked away. “But you no longer matter to Maeve. She could care less about you, now. _And I’m glad_.”

Lorcan had almost moved to take a step closer, but the words repelled him, as they were meant to. “What?” he asked quietly.

“I think it’s fitting that the woman you spent centuries serving cares no more for you than a speck of dust on her shoe. That you sold your soul to her for nothing. Because you _are_ nothing, Lorcan. Not to Maeve, not to Aelin, not to me. The only one who seems to care about you at all is that god of death you serve. And I think that’s fitting, too.”

Each phrase sent an arrow into Lorcan’s heart, and he did not cry out. He did not argue, because he knew he deserved every one of them. Elide’s words were honed weapons, and she hurled each one at him now. She had spent the past week in her cabin sharpening them with him in mind, waiting for the opportunity to wound him.

He would submit to it. Gods damn him, he would submit to death itself if it were at her hands. “You’re right,” he growled, and she stiffened. “I am nothing. But I wanted to make sure you knew that you aren’t.”

“Of course I know that,” she hissed, but her voice was small.

Thick silence fell between them, and soon Elide limped off, her awkward gait creating an offbeat rhythm along the wooden floor. He wanted to brace her ankle for her as he once had, but he knew she would reject it. And he didn’t blame her. He watched her until she had turned the corner and moved out of sight.

“Goodbye, Elide,” he murmured.


	8. Chapter 8

The thrill of battle sparked through Aedion’s blood as he watched flaming arrows arc through the sky and land upon Bellhaven, one of the main cities still in Erawan’s control. The planning between Galan and Endymion Whitethorn had gone well, and their siege upon the city was locked tight. The merchant ships conscripted to serve as military vessels were nowhere near equipped to handle a proper Fae armada, and in the dark nights leading up to the assault, the Silent Assassins and the portions of Ansel’s army that traveled with them had crept on shore to launch an attack from the other side of the city. Aedion had wanted to go, but as the bulk to the attack was coming from the ships, it had been decided that his place would be best on the fleet.

Aedion was thrilled to slip back into this mode of battle commander. It was familiar, and something he knew how to do. It was as easy as walking and talking to him, and after he had led the fleet through the assault in the Eyllwe marshes, the sailors and soldiers on board these vessels had faith in his commands. He was no Rowan, but at least he didn’t have to deal with insubordination or chaos in his own ranks while they launched the attack.

Endymion had asked if “Aelin” would be participating in the battle, and Aedion had been forced to explain that her magic was still not in fighting shape. _And never would be again._ He fought the urge to curse the real Aelin under his breath. How were they supposed to keep up this ruse if Lysandra couldn’t manage to summon any flames for the slightest demonstration? Frankly, Aedion was amazed they’d gotten away with it for this long. So Lysandra kept herself locked in his cabin, making up some elaborate story about taking precautions against Erawan, who might try to use her magic against them. Those who had seen her power knew what a danger this could be, so they did not dare argue.

Erawan was not at the battle, and Aedion praised every god he knew for this. Without Aelin, he was sure they’d stand no chance against the Dark King himself. The plan in the event of his arrival had been swift and immediate retreat, but thankfully it seemed there was no need for that plan. So they took the city from land and from sea, successfully barricading the ports and sealing off Bellhaven from reinforcements by any other means. Ansel’s armies were stationed on every road leading out of the city--reports had said they’d been forced to fend off some Valg and ilken, but despite some losses they’d pulled a victory. Ilken had come for the ships, too, but flaming Fae arrows had seemed to do the trick. Aedion couldn’t help but enjoy the satisfying splash of each ilken that dropped into the salty waves around them.

When the battle had waned and their claim on the city was secured, Aedion went over to Endymion’s ship again and went over their next moves.

“This is good,” Endymion said, leaning over a map of Erilea stuck with various colored flags. His hands braced the table on either side, his hair pulled into a knot above his head. “We’ve isolated Morath from Bellhaven. His only other access to the sea is through Melisande, which is also ours. The bulk of Ansel’s army is marching through now, though they will not launch an attack on Morath directly. They’re not equipped to face the magic there.”

Aedion nodded his agreement. “They’re supposed to head through the White Fangs, but they need to do it soon or else they’ll be stranded when winter hits, and they’ll be no good to us. But at the very least they can shake up some of Erawan’s beasts that might be lurking there and keep some of Erawan’s attention away from us while we try to take Rifthold.”

Endymion nodded thoughtfully. “This battle was easy. Almost uncomfortably so.”

“What do you mean?” Aedion asked.

“Erawan has held that city for ages, if my information is right, and to just give it up so easily?”

“You think that battle was easy?” Aedion asked. They’d lost plenty of men and ships--they had by no means gotten away without any difficulty.

“He’s right,” Galan said, and Aedion’s jaw tensed. “I’ve been fighting Adarlan’s armada for years, and it doesn’t sit right that he didn’t send it to face us in Bellhaven.”

“That’s something I don’t get,” Aedion admitted. “Adarlan was going after Wendlyn because you’re magic users and he needed you to make more Valg. But now magic is back here. Is there something else he was after?”

“I couldn’t begin to tell you,” Galan said honestly. “There are plenty of valuable things in Wendlyn, but I wouldn’t know which of them would interest a Valg king.”

Just then, a sailor came in with a message that he handed to Enda. The Fae warrior’s eyebrows rose as he read it. “It seems we had an easier time in Bellhaven because some of Erawan’s armies are heading north.”

“North to Rifthold?” Aedion asked. That could be bad. Perhaps Erawan wanted them to get cocky and only planned to destroy them at Rifthold.

Enda read the note closely again. “They’re replacements for a Rifthold branch that has been sent scouting in the Mountains of Ararat,” he said. “That branch has not been seen in weeks, and it appears that they haven’t reached their destination.”

“What is in the Mountains of Ararat?” Galan asked, his eyes wide. “Surely not another stronghold?”

Adion wracked his brain and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not a stronghold. A school.”

“Pardon?” Enda asked.

“Dorian is not the only son of the King of Adarlan, remember? His second son, Hollin, has been hidden in a school in the Mountains of Ararat ever since the war broke out. Perhaps Erawan’s soldiers are seeking him out.”

“To put on the throne? Why?” Galan asked.

“He’s young and pliable, and just as vicious as Valg spawn, from what I remember,” Aedion said. “It would cement Erawan’s legitimacy. At the very least, it might draw Dorian out, which may be the plan.”

“But the soldiers that were sent never made it to the school?” Galan asked Enda.

“Not according to my information.”

“The school’s location is well known, even if it’s difficult to reach,” Aedion said. “Were they intercepted? And if so, by what?”

“That remains the question,” Enda mused. He pressed his lips into a line and his eyes were darker than usual as he considered.

“Our first priority is taking Rifthold,” Aedion said, and the other men nodded, “but if we can keep that bargaining chip out of Erawan’s hands, that could be critical. And for all he’s an insufferable leech, Hollin is just a boy. I’d rather not find out what Erawan has planned for him.”

“Agreed,” Galan said, looking slightly green.

“Does your queen agree with this?” Enda asked, raising his eyebrows.

“My queen has always spared children,” Aedion said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I would rather like to hear her say so myself.”

“She is indisposed. You know this.”

“And my cousin is gone off on some secret mission for her, and you’re the only one who seems to be in charge despite the fact that our alliance is with Aelin Galathynius. Am I wrong for feeling slighted that she won’t even speak to me?”

“Yes,” Aedion said, his expression closed off. He would not have this conversation with Endymion, not now. There were too many other things to worry about. He just wanted to take Rifthold and set sail for the north--but just how much of that would be possible without Aelin?

-

Dorian was bemused and uncomfortable as they were led into the Crochan compound. Manon seemed aloof and cool, and he tried to do the same, though it was difficult with so many distrusting eyes upon them. He had to remind himself that he had power now--he had magic. He could defend himself if he needed to. Out of good faith, he hadn’t yet tried to shield Manon or any of her accompanying witches, but the desire to itched at his fingertips as more and more Crochans appeared around them.

They reached the base of one of the trees and a rope ladder was lowered down to them. It was difficult to climb, but eventually Dorian and the others reached the top, where a large round treehouse was nestled among the thick boughs of a moss-covered tree. The witches who had greeted them and who had joined along the way all filed into the room and sat at a low, round table in the middle of the room. The air was less dense up here, though not by much. Dorian, Manon, and the other Ironteeth were given seats, and the young witch that had greeted them eagerly sat beside Dorian, trying to catch his eye. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t deny he liked the positive attention--especially since Manon had been so closed-off lately. He looked the Ironteeth Wing Leader up and down while he attention was elsewhere and thought he might like to feel her silken hair his his hands again, caress her breasts . . . but there seemed to be no time or place for that anymore.

The eldest witch, the one they called Granny, was seated directly across from the door to Manon and Dorian’s left. She smiled benignly at all the people in the room, seemingly oblivious to the tension that radiated from all of them. Beside her was a redheaded witch with freckles spattered across her face--on a human, it might have seemed charming, but on a witch they were an easy reminder of spattered blood. “I am Aine Morana,” she said, “and this is Aellai, our leader.” She gestured to Granny. “Her words are few, but her wisdom great. I do her speaking in circumstances such as these.” Aellai nodded serenely. Aine continued, “These are my sisters. We are sisters in ways that Ironteeth do not know--in ways they have forgotten.”

Astern tensed beside Manon, but Dorian’s curiosity was piqued.

“Our sisterhood is is good, and it is pleasing to the Three-Faced Goddess,” Aine continued. “We have always grieved the lack of sisterhood we share with the Ironteeth.”

“It is hard to seek sisterhood with those who try to kill you at first glance,” Calliope said bitterly. Cillían pinched her arm and Calliope grimaced.

“Aellai senses that Manon is not here to kill us,” Aine said.

“If I was, I would have already done it,” Manon said, her honesty biting. Dorian had to admit that he did not understand witch politics perfectly. He understood the antagonism between Crochans and Ironteeth, but it seemed baseless. He didn’t know where the divide had begun.

“You seek an alliance,” Aine said. “You want to face down the darkness that has invaded this world and your own blood.” Aellai’s dark eyes shifted to Dorian, and he couldn’t suppress his shudder.

“Why are you looking at him like that?” Manon asked. “This is about us.”

“And him,” Aellai said, breaking her silence.

“What do you mean by that?” Manon demanded. Aellai did not answer. Dorian saw Manon’s iron nails beginning to poke out from her skin. Unwilling to let her temper ruin this meeting, he casually laid his hand over hers. Her golden eyes glanced down and she pulled her hand away--but the iron nails had slid back into her skin.

“I’ll hold your hand, Your Majesty,” whispered the small witch, Nyx, beside him. She slipped her hand into his and grinned. Dorian couldn’t help but twist his lips in a smirk. He didn’t pull away.

“The darkness of the Valg has poisoned the Ironteeth,” Aine said. “The same darkness has poisoned others in this realm, including the former King of Adarlan.”

Dorian spoke up, and it came out as a growl. “Do not tell us things we already know.”

Calliope snarled and some of the other witches murmured amongst themselves at the bold mortal.

“We do not intend to,” Aine said. Her eyebrows were raised, and she was clearly unimpressed. “But you surely have many questions about your father’s dealings with the Valg--questions that we may be able to answer.”

“How could you know anything?” Manon challenged. “You’ve been in hiding.”

“No thanks to you,” one of the other witches with ash-blonde hair muttered.

“Just as you have your shadows, we have ours,” Aine answered. She gestured to three of the other witches. Two looked so similar they could be twins, but something in Dorian’s other senses told him they weren’t. The third looked more human than the others, with short brown-blonde hair and wide eyes that looked like they’d seen a great deal of the world. She seemed to want to avoid the attention, but she met Dorian’s gaze defiantly when he looked at her.

“I’m just the information specialist,” said the wide-eyed one. “Call me Ceres.”

“She’s just being modest,” said one of the not-twins. “Took more after her mortal father so she blends in easier.”

“And you are?” Dorian asked raising his dark brow.

The witch mimicked the gesture. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Nyx made a small noise of protest beside Dorian and squeezed his hand tighter.

“We just call them our demons,” Ceres said, glaring at the pair. “Awful gossips, really.”

“We have names!” the other not-twin barked.

“No one cares,” Ceres said with a shrug. Some of the other witches snickered and the not-twins growled in unison.

Aine sighed. “The point is that we’ve been able to gather quite a bit of information about what has happened in Adarlan, and some ideas about what can be done to stop it. But this is not information that we can simply hand over. Not without knowing we can trust you.”

“And how am I to prove that?” Manon demanded.

Aine and Aellai grinned. “We need to take a trip to the temple.”


	9. Chapter 9

Chaol and Nesryn were welcomed to a feast that night by Sartaq and his wife--who gave them permission to call her Yrene, as Chaol kept brutalizing her new name in his northern accent, no matter how often he tried to get it right. He’d had similar difficulties throughout their stay in Antica so far, and few others had been so forgiving. Nesryn had thought it all hilarious, but Chaol had far less of a good temper about it. He was thankful for the graciousness of the gonji. _An Erilean barmaid to Antican royalty_ , he mused. Nevertheless, Yrene seemed well-suited to the role she had adopted, and she was a generous hostess to the both of them throughout the banquet.

A troupe of dancers had arrived to perform for the gonji, and as the dancers flashed their bright-colored robes and performed acrobatics in the open space before the table, Yrene turned to Chaol and smiled. “I’m told you’ve spent a good deal of time at the Torre Cesme recently,” she said. At Chaol’s lifted eyebrow, she added, “I am known as the Blessed Healer--I am not the best healer among those at the Torre Cesme, but my ability to save Sartaq earned me the distinction.”

“May I ask what happened?” Chaol asked, not in the mood to discuss his own injuries at present. He also wanted to glean more about what Sartaq’s capabilities were, given his blindness. If it would be useless to ally with him, than Chaol would much rather turn around and go back to Erilea and make a difference there.

“I’m sure you know that the khaganate is given to the strongest of the heirs of the khagan,” said Yrene. “Sartaq was undoubtedly the strongest for most of his life, but his next-youngest brother wanted to weaken him. He poisoned Sartaq, and the contaminant ravaged his body and nearly killed him. I had been at the Torre Cesme for a year, and despite being one of the few who possessed natural healing magic, I did not have the rank to be privileged to treat him. But--perhaps inspired by our mutual assassin friend--I broke the rules one night and crept into his ward . . . only to find his brother’s lackeys sneaking in to finish the job. They attacked me, but thanks to some tricks Celaena taught me, I was able to waylay them until help came. As thanks, I was granted the privilege of treating Sartaq.

“The poison was of Erilean origin and I recognized it immediately. But the delay in treatment meant that I could not prevent all of the damage. He never regained his sight.”

“And yet he remains the jinong,” Chaol said.

Yrene nodded and looked him up and down. “Do you think his blindness makes him weak? Do you think your injury makes you weak?”

Chaol blanched and tore his eyes away from the gonji, losing himself for a moment in the colorful swirls of the dancers. “Most would,” he said.

“I wasn’t asking about most.”

Chaol swallowed. “How does the jinong remain the strongest if he cannot see? If he is weakened in such a way?” His words were sharp and he knew that he was treading a very careful line. If he disrespected Yrene or her husband too much, he’d be run out of Antica without any kind of alliance.

“Only those whose pride is in their bodies think so,” Yrene said. “But Sartaq’s pride was never in his body. It was in his mind and in his heart. So he saw his blindness as a fact, but nothing that had to necessarily weaken him. With my help, he had adaptations made--his raised map, dictated messages, and so on. And as soon as he learned to work with his blindness--not against it--he clearly remained the strongest of his siblings and the most prepared to lead our empire . . . not to mention the only leader to whom the Khoid would swear their fealty.”

“The Khoid?”

“The northern armies,” Yrene clarified. Chaol thought of Aedion and the Bane and nodded. He thought of his own men--tortured and killed because of their loyalty. Bile rose in the back of his throat.

“But what accommodations could I make?” Chaol challenged. “I cannot fight if I am bound to a chair. There is a war being waged, and I cannot battle in it.”

“Perhaps your use is elsewhere. Perhaps King Dorian named you his Hand not because of your battle prowess but because you possess something else he values. And if you put your pride in _that_ . . . then you will truly make a difference in this war.”

A chill ran over Chaol’s shoulders. Something rang true about the gonji’s words, but he was in no state to reconcile them in his heart and mind. “You don’t sound like a barmaid,” he said, realizing too late that it might not sound like the compliment he intended.

Yrene only smiled. “Yrene the barmaid would not have thought such things, nor spoken in such a way. But Khordad the gonji . . . she has learned a thing or two in the past couple of years.”

“I am glad of that,” Chaol said honestly. He glanced at Nesryn to his right, who was fixated on the dancers with a lovely smile on her face--though Chaol didn’t think for a moment that she hadn’t heard every word of his conversation with Yrene. He counted himself lucky to have her with him, and he had to admit she looked gorgeous in the robes she’d adorned for the banquet--a rich red wine color that brought out the rich hues of her skin. Maybe, tonight . . .

No. Not until this was all right.

“I will make a case to Sartaq,” Yrene said, drawing Chaol’s attention back to her. “I remember the tyranny of the last king, and if it was the Valg empowering him . . . I know they will not be content to leave our empire in peace. Give me three days. Don’t come here again in that time. Remain at the Torre Cesme. I will come see you there at the end of the three days with his decision.”

The muscles in Chaol’s shoulders tensed at the thought of leaving this all in Yrene’s hands. He’d come prepared with argument upon argument, prepared to plead his case until he couldn’t breathe. To leave it to Yrene seemed illogical. But from the sincerity in her gold-brown eyes, Chaol could see that she meant to do right by him. And he couldn’t deny that the thought of spending more time trying to heal was very appealing. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he murmured, nodding his head in deference.

“I could never forget my home. I told Celaena that I wanted to return to Erilea one day to bring my healing gifts back. Perhaps ending this war is the way to do that.”

Chaol nodded thoughtfully and returned to the savory meal before him, and the rainbow of the dancers blurred before him as his thoughts drifted and his heart pondered the words of his only hope.

-

Aelin stared into the fire after Sam, her heart tight but her spirit somehow freed. She had needed his words--hadn’t realized how tightly her heart still clung to him over all the unsaid things between them. But now something within her, a chain she’d carried, had broken, and her breath came easier.

Footsteps sounded behind her and she turned to face Nehemia, whose demeanor had softened, though she still stood with that ever-present dignity that Aelin had loved so much. _More of a queen than I’ll ever be_ , Aelin thought.

“Your time here is growing short,” Nehemia said. “Maeve will soon learn of your deception about the keys, and then you must return to face her.”

Aelin flinched as she thought of returning to that body bound in iron and pain. “Thank you, Nehemia,” she said. “I . . . I’m glad you made me face him.”

Nehemia smiled gently. “It was time you did. It was time you searched again for the assassin who survived--for Elentiya. But your time here isn’t finished. There are others you still need to face.”

Aelin straightened and her blood ran cold as she thought of all the people who

to her. The pain of facing Sam had been . . . intense. And there were other losses that stung far deeper.

Nehemia closed the distance between them and kissed Aelin’s brow where the mark of Brannon burned--the mark that had sealed her fate. “I’ll leave you alone with them for a while.”

“With who?” Aelin demanded, her eyes wide and panicked. But Nehemia didn’t answer as she moved behind Aelin, and when Aelin turned around, Nehemia had vanished.

This time, she didn’t wait to be called. She turned around to face her past, refusing to tremble, though she knew she might very well be destroyed by what she saw.

She was right.

Every limb froze up as though she’d been dosed with gloriella--her throat tightened and her eyes burned. She could hardly breathe. “Mother. Father.” She squeezed her eyes shut but could not stop the tears. It was hard seeing them like this, when her last memory of them was . . . It was like Sam. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been bloody and destroyed, just as with her parents. Just as with Nehemia. This was a gift now, to have this last image of them whole to cling onto. A gift, not a torment.

“Hello, Fireheart,” said her mother, and Evalin’s voice was like warm honey flowing over Aelin’s skin. Aelin stumbled across the distance between them, and when she was close enough she threw herself into her mother’s arms and let herself cry--full-bodied sobs that she had kept in for so long. She refused to choke them back now. Her mother’s hand lifted to stroke her identical blonde hair, and her father joined the embrace, his broad arms easily encompassing both his wife and daughter.

“Aelin . . . Fireheart. We are _proud_ of you,” Evalin said.

Aelin shook her head where it was buried in her mother’s collar. She couldn’t manage the words she wanted to say. She choked out, “How can you be?”

“How can we _not_ be?” Rhoe said, and his baritone voice struck a chord in her bones, a forgotten harmony that Aelin had dearly missed. “Look at what you’ve done. The world you’ve forged.”

“It’s not over,” Aelin said, lifting her head. “I haven’t finished. Erawan is still loose, and I’m trapped here, and--”

“Shh,” Evalin said, caressing her daughter’s cheek. Aelin was struck by how much she did look like her mother. Everyone had said so when she was a child, but now that she was an adult and nearer her mother’s age at the time of her death, the similarity was jarring. Looking at Evalin was like looking into a mirror. “This is only for a short time, remember?”

The words were not the comfort she intended. For now that she’d felt her parents’ embrace again, Aelin wasn’t sure that she ever wanted to leave their arms again. “I’ll escape,” Aelin whispered, and it was a promise as much as it was a question. She would not repeat the same mistakes again. She would not squander the opportunity, this gift. She would emerge stronger, and she would fight--even if she would have to die in the end.

“Terrasen is safe,” she said, looking at her father, whose eyes glowed with love and pride. “I . . . I married Rowan. He’s Prince Consort. And my friend, Lysandra, she--”

“We know, love,” Rhoe said. “But you know as well as we do that this is only a temporary arrangement. Your shifter friend may be talented, but she cannot be a true replacement for you.”

“I had to do something,” Aelin said. “If Darrow finds out I’ve been taken, he’ll wipe the Galathynius claim. He’ll take our kingdom.”

Rhoe frowned slightly. “Darrow always was a prick,” he muttered. Aelin’s eyes widened, and then she laughed. She had forgotten that her temper was her father’s. But his eyes fell on hers again as he said, “I knew you would make a radiant queen, Aelin. Even when you said you didn’t want it. I saw in you what I could never be--someone with your mother’s cleverness who could outwit any enemy. Someone with a thirst for knowledge and a keen sense of justice. I knew you would be the hope of our kingdom the moment you were born.”

Aelin’s tears returned to burn the rim of her eyes. “But I won’t be queen,” she said. “I . . . have to forge the Lock.” She paused and looked between her parents, then at the ground. “Did you know?”

Her mother tucked some of her hair behind her ear. “No, Fireheart. We did not know about Elena’s bargain. But we knew about Maeve.”

Aelin looked up. “Rowan?”

Evalin smiled. “No, love. But I am so, so glad you found each other.”

Aelin sniffled. “Me, too.”

Evalin cupped Aelin’s cheek and guided her eyes to meet her gaze. “Listen to me carefully, Aelin. You know that Maeve wants to make you a weapon. But you are not the first. When I was in Mistward, I learned the truth about what she was doing with the gift demi-Fae. I tried to warn Glaston, but he wouldn’t listen. Rhoe was the one who did, and the only way to protect myself and the knowledge I’d learned about Maeve was to elope to Terrasen, where Maeve would not follow.”

“Because of Brannon,” Aelin said.

Evalin nodded. “Maeve would never set foot in Terrasen because of Brannon’s bloodline there. When you were born, her messenger came from Wendlyn to demand that we bring you to her. We refused. Vaughan came back every year to demand it.”

“Wait, Vaughan? As in osprey-Vaughan?” Aelin asked.

Evalin nodded. “When your power developed, I knew that she would add you to her collection, for the weapon she’s been preparing for centuries.”

“What weapon?” Aelin asked.

“There’s not much time,” Evalin said, glancing at Rhoe, “but when you go back, she will try to make you immune to iron. She will inject you with a poison not of this world, which will defeat your weakness but will make you hers--unable to fight her will.”

Aelin’s hand flew to her mouth. “Like her bloodsworn?”

“It’s a perversion of the _carranam_ bond,” Rhoe explained. “Not the same, but based on the same principles. You must fight it, Aelin. Do not let her wield your magic.”

“Rowan is coming for you,” Evalin said, gripping Aelin’s arm. “Just fight it off for that long. The poison is weakened away from Maeve’s stronghold.”

“Where is this stronghold?” Aelin asked. She’d been unable to glean anything from her journey in the iron case.

“The middle of the sea,” Evalin said. “The isle itself is made of iron, and there are others like you upon it, whom she has enslaved. You will have to rely on your human side to get you out. Your magic will not help you, for you will not be its master. But you can remain your own master if you cling to what you know and who you are. _Fight it, Aelin_.” Evalin’s voice was almost panicked, her Ashryver eyes wide with passion.

“I will!” Aelin swore. “I won’t let her use me. I promise.”

“Our time is running out,” Rhoe said. “Remember that _you_ are the one that Terrasen needs. Not Lysandra, not Elide, not Rowan. You. And you will survive this if you cling to that. If you remember that you were loved and you are loved, and that this is a power that Maeve and her ilk will never be able to understand. _That_ is the power that burns inside of you. Not a promise of death--but of love.”

Aelin flung herself into her father’s arms. “I love you, Father! I missed you every day.” She turned and embraced her mother and repeated those words. Tears flowed freely down her face. “Nehemia said I could defy the gods. Do you think I can?”

“I haven’t the slightest doubt,” Rhoe said, and Evalin nodded her agreement. “Send those bastards back where they came from and claim your birthright.”

The pillar of fire behind Aelin flickered as hope sprang within her for the first time since she’d been locked away. Rhoe bent and kissed his daughter’s forehead, and her mother kissed her cheek. “We are sorry we couldn’t be there as you grew,” her father said, sounding choked up at last. “But you’ve grown into such a remarkable woman. We are so proud.” Those words again--but this time they didn’t sound so untrue. Her parents embraced her tightly one last time, and then they released her to move toward her heart of fire.

“We love you, Aelin,” Evalin said.

“I love you. I’ll never forget you,” Aelin said, her heart cleaving open with the power of the emotion that coursed through her.

Her parents gripped hands as they cast one last glance at their daughter. Then, as one, they walked into the pillar of fire. Aelin let out one last mourning cry, but then she pressed her hand over her heart and straightened, committing her parents’ words to her soul and swearing the last shreds of herself upon them. When she looked up again, Nehemia was standing there.

“Thank you,” Aelin said again to her old friend.

Nehemia smiled. “Once you escape Maeve, you will need time to heal and purge the poison. My brothers in Banjali know an antidote--go to them for rest and for guidance. They know all that I knew, and they will offer you sanctuary before your last fight. Now it’s time to go, Aelin.”

“You would have made an amazing queen,” Aelin said, and this time the statement lacked the comparison. Nehemia would have been a great queen, but it was not too late for Aelin to be one, too. She just had to hold her past close and forge a new future.

“Thank you for all that you have tried to do for my people,” Nehemia said. “One day I hope that they are truly free in the Erilea you have cleansed in your fire.”

“I will never forget that vow to see them freed,” Aelin said. “You were my friend, Nehemia, and that was more valuable to me than any other gift you could have given.”

“It was a privilege and an honor, and I will watch for the day when you finally vanquish your enemies.”

There was a flicker still of uncertainty in Aelin’s heart, but she silenced it. She closed the distance between her and the Eyllwe princess and clasped Nehemia in her arms. “I’ll never forget you.” The same promise she had made to her parents and to Sam. She would not let her past bind her, but she would use her past and the people she had loved to empower her--to break free. “I’m ready to go,” she said.

Nehemia smiled and unfolded Aelin’s palm. She traced a Wyrdmark there, one Aelin had never seen. “Once I’m gone, this will take you back,” she murmured. Then she kissed the back of Aelin’s knuckles. She released Aelin’s hand and stepped backward toward the pillar of fire. Before she departed, she dark eyes burned into Aelin’s and she said, “Go on, Elentiya. Go rattle the stars.” Then she took a step backward and vanished into the flames.

Aelin’s palm began to burn where Nehemia had traced the Wyrdmark, and at last Aelin began to lift from the marble floor of her innermost chamber. Filled with more peace than she’d had when she’d descended, she rose upward, through the high ceilings of the temple, into the ashen chamber where her magic once had been, and into the antechamber where she’d first begun to touch Brannon’s gift. She landed on her feet in this chamber and saw a door waiting on the other side. Knowing what awaited her on the other side, Aelin strode toward it, reaching out with her marked hand.

Then, with a heave, the Heir of Fire pushed through. The inner light of her mind winked out and she was surrounded by darkness and pain and iron.

But spurred on by the memories and strength of her heart of fire, she gasped.

And Aelin Ashryver Galathynius opened her eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

 

The pain was almost unbearable. The gashes that had opened upon her back thanks to Cairn’s whipping stung and burned, as only human healing had begun to affect them. They were scabbed and tight and itching, just as she remembered her scars from Endovier had been. But the slightest shift of her body sent lashes of pain through her limbs and brought hot tears to the corners of her eyes.

She was aware enough to realize that she was upright, at least, and not left to lay on her injuries. The box was small, and though Aelin pressed against the front to keep her back from touching the opposite wall, there wasn’t much room to manage it. Her heart fluttered and her breath quickened as she recalled those dark days locked away in Endovier. She’d sworn she would never go back. And yet she had acquiesced to _this_.

Her family was right. Sam and Nehemia were right. She could get out of this, and she would. But she wasn’t going to simply leap out without having a clue where she was or what she might face. Her parents had told her of the iron fortress in the sea, but beyond that she had no clue what to expect. The overwhelming smell of iron disrupted her Fae sense of smell, and there was only  small barred window in the iron coffin through which Aelin could peer--it was higher than her head was, though, and despite her straining she could barely see over the lip of it. She listened and heard shuffling. Guards, likely--of what sort? She couldn’t tell from in here.

Her best bet for now was to wait--learn what surrounded her through the few senses she had, and then determine the best time to make her escape. She ran her fingers along the seams of the coffin, but she found no pegs or bolts that she might be able to manipulate. It was Fae-made and not susceptible to the weaknesses that similar contraptions Arobynn had made her face might be. Of course, she had other tools at her disposal.

Aelin settled and breathed for a moment, working through possible plans in her mind. Thankfully, Maeve didn’t keep her waiting.

Aelin was brought to attention by a riotous shriek. “What do you _mean_ she doesn’t have them?” Despite the agony in her back, Aelin couldn’t help but smile as she heard Maeve’s swift footsteps clack across the floor toward where her iron case stood.

There was a loud creak and crash as Maeve ripped the lid off the coffin with one hand. Her obsidian eyes glared at Aelin, who quickly realized that now was not the time to make her escape. She still had the shackles and the mask, and only a swift dart of her eyes told her that there were far too many guards to face without a plan.

Maeve’s dark nails reached for the mask on Aelin’s face and pulled it off, not caring about being gentle. Aelin winced as the buckles sliced some skin open on her neck. But she schooled her face into the well-practiced smug expression she’d perfected as Celaena.

“ _Where are they?_ ” Maeve demanded, her lips curling into a vicious snarl.

“Have you lost something, Aunt?” Aelin asked, lifting a golden eyebrow.

“The Wyrdkeys, you little wretch! You had them!” Maeve’s voice was piercing, but Aelin remained composed.

“I _did_ have them,” Aelin said, feigning surprise. “I’m sorry, did you forget to have your little friend Cairn check my pockets before you packed me up and shipped me here? Where is _here_ anyway?” Aelin peered over Maeve’s shoulder, but the most she could make out was a dome-shaped room that let in no light from outside. There were no torches, either--rather, the room seemed lit by veins of enchanted light in the walls. Minerals of some kind. The guards surrounding Maeve were the usual sort of Fae grunts . . . or so she thought. As she tilted her head she saw that more than one lacked pointed ears. Demi-Fae. Interesting. They all peered at her with dreadful black eyes like their mistress’s. Eyes that reminded Aelin far too much of the Valg.

Maeve reached out and slashed her nails across Aelin’s cheek. Aelin choked in alarm and pain but did not give her the pleasure of crying out. When she swallowed down her shock, she gasped, “Really? You had to mark my face? I thought you appreciated beauty.”

“You are pathetic,” Maeve growled. “Comatose for over a week and when you wake up you’re the same swaggering, insufferable brat I locked away. If you don’t mind your tongue I’ll have Cairn take another turn with you.”

“I’m at your service, My Queen,” Cairn said, and Aelin flashed a sharp glare at him. There was movement beside him and she saw a small female demi-Fae with short-cropped hair sidling away from him. The demi-Fae noticed Aelin looking and her dark eyes met with Aelin’s. But there was something in those black depths--not emptiness as in the eyes of the others. Aelin took note of this and slid her attention back to Maeve.

“Don’t fault me for your carelessness,” Aelin said calmly. “You’re so used to getting your way that you forget to check twice. An amateur’s mistake.”

Maeve’s ire had shifted from chaos to cold. She looked upon Aelin with unadulterated hatred edged with glee. “I am very old, Aelin. _Old as dirt_ , I believe you’ve been so kind as to mention. This makes me very patient. And now that I have you, I have methods to make you more . . . amenable to my point of view. You’ll lead me to the Wyrdkeys yourself.”

“Like hell I will.”

Doors clanged open on the other end of the hall and more guards entered, holding between them a young, thrashing demi-Fae girl who shrieked as they hauled her to a basin set in the center of the room. Maeve shifted so that Aelin could see the chair they had set there. The guards dragged the girl and pinned her down, strapping her arms and legs, ankles and wrists to the chair. They even stretched a band across her brow to keep her from jerking her head around. The girl shrieked and then whimpered when a guard struck her.

“Over the years I have had an awful lot of time to experiment,” Maeve said, and Aelin’s stomach twisted in horror. “Overcoming the Fae’s resistance to iron was no easy feat, and ultimately I realized that the only way to do it was to find a way to change your blood. There was a great deal of trial and error, of course, but in the end I found something--a nice little parasite from where I grew up that feeds on iron--and replaces it with something else.”

 _Holy gods_ , Aelin thought as she watched the sobbing demi-Fae girl. She longed to lunge forward and wring Maeve’s neck--to free the girl--but she was too weak and would have no way of making a difference. Instead, she watched in horror as one of the guards drew out a vial. Inside writhed a tiny black worm. Aelin almost couldn’t see it from where she stood. But indeed, it was a sort of worm, one that triggered a painful memory in Aelin’s mind.

The guard holding the vial removed the worm with tweezers and approached the girl while the other guard gripped the girl’s face in his hands. Aelin was paralyzed, wanting to look away but determined not to. She needed to know what was going to happen to her if she planned on fighting it and surviving it.

The girl screamed and bile rose in Aelin’s throat as the guard with the worm leaned over the girl and inserted the worm at the corner of the girl’s left eyes. The girl screamed and thrashed and wailed in pain as the worm burrowed into her, but soon, too soon, she went limp. The guards injected her with two other vials of indeterminate liquid, and the room fell silent.

Several long moments later, the girl gasped for air. She did not scream or cry out. She looked placidly at the ceiling, her formerly grey eyes now the deepest black. Even more, the veins around her body were quickly starting to appear black as well, as though her very blood was changing color.

“Release her,” Maeve said, a dark smile twisting her lips. The guards obeyed, and the girl climbed to her feet. “Shea,” Maeve said to the short-haired demi-Fae Aelin had noticed earlier. “Welcome your new sister.”

Shea crossed the room and took the girl’s hand, leading her to Maeve. The girl did not tremble before the queen--her expression was solemn, impassive.

“What is your name?” Maeve asked.

“I have no name,” replied the girl.

“Good. Whom do you serve?”

“Only the Dark Queen and Mother.”

“Good. And what color runs your blood?”

“Black as obsidian. Black as home.”

Maeve’s grin was unsettling. “Beautiful. Now your power is mine to use as I please. I have no need for you right now . . . unless you’d like to give the Heir of Fire a demonstration.”

The girl blinked once. Then, almost too swift for Aelin to dodge it, an icicle came charging at her, only to shatter on the iron beside her head.

 _Gods_. It had worked. Maeve had made the girl immune to iron.

And controlled her every will.

 _Fight it, Aelin_ , her parents had begged. She would. She had to--there was no choice. She could not let Maeve make a weapon out of her like this. She might not have the Wyrdkeys, but even Aelin alone with Mala’s power . . . it would be chaos and destruction everywhere. She could not allow it.

Maeve turned back to face Aelin, whose eyes had gone wide and whose skin was sallow. “Isn’t it glorious? Look what a fate awaits you. Free from the burden of royalty, destined only to serve. No more pain--consider that, Aelin. I think my offer might even be generous. I’m taking away your greatest weakness, after all. Freeing you from the chains that have bound you since childhood.”

“That doesn’t look like freedom to me,” Aelin said, her voice hoarse.

Maeve only smiled wanly. “You’ll just have to experience it for yourself.”

And before Aelin could so much as protest, the iron mask was clamped back on her face and she was shut away into the darkness once more.


	11. Chapter 11

“Manon, are you sure about this?” Dorian asked as the witches began to file out of the treehouse meeting room, Aellai shuffling along with the help of Aine. “Following them deeper into the jungle? We’ve only just met them.”

Manon gave him a withering look. “Do you think I can’t handle them?”

Dorian thought of the iron claws beneath her fingers--the way they’d pricked at his skin when he’d lain with her--and shuddered. “That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“Do you even have a plan, or are you just blowing wherever the wind does?” There. Dorian spoke his fears out loud. Aedion was off leading battles along the coast, Ansel’s men were marching toward Morath, and Rowan was after Aelin. And he was plodding around in the jungle with no clear idea of what he was supposed to be doing. _Raise an army_ , Manon had said. Well, that was going swimmingly.

Manon’s golden eyes bored into his and she said in a voice so quiet that only he could hear, “Just because I let you bed me does not mean that you pass judgment on my leadership.”

Dorian straightened to his full height and looked down at her--at those full lips he’d very much like to capture with his despite his current bad mood . . . or perhaps because of it. “You _let_ me bed you?” he purred. “Is that how you remember it?”

“That’s how it _was_ ,” Manon insisted, “or else you’d be in bloody ribbons on the floor of that cabin.”

Nyx, who hadn’t filed out yet, let out a little squeak of alarm, but she wasn’t bold enough to challenge Manon. The Ironteeth leader glared and Nyx went scampering off.

“As if you could bear to ruin such a lovely face,” Dorian said, gesturing at his own features.

“I’m an Ironteeth, princeling. Beauty does not move me.” Manon’s golden eyes were sparking dangerously now, part in wrath and part in glee at the game.

“Good thing it moves me, then,” Dorian breathed. He reached out and ran his fingers through her moonlit hair. He leaned in and brushed his nose against her ear, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her. He was very glad her Second and Third had drifted out of the room to wait for them.

“My beauty is a weapon,” Manon reminded him, though he thought he heard her voice catch in her throat as his fingers wandered up and down her slender neck.

He drew back and his sapphire eyes met her gold ones. “I know that very well,” he said, his voice low. Their breath mingled in the small space between them, and the air was charged as though begging Dorian to put his mouth on hers.

But Manon stepped away. “You may be a king, but you are not my king. And I may be a Crochan Queen, but I am not your queen. Understood?”

Dorian stared at her in silence. He wanted to say, _Perhaps we could change that_. But if he suggested that out loud he would know that he had well and truly gone insane. A mortal king wed to a witch? There were so many things wrong with that that Dorian couldn’t begin to list them. Whatever they were to each other now . . . this was all that would ever work. And he wasn’t totally sure _working_ was the best way to describe their relationship.

All he did in response was nod.

Manon stalked out of the room like a tigress, and Dorian followed along behind.

-

They walked amidst the cluster of Crochans they had met so far. Nyx had returned to linger at Dorian’s side and he did not shoo her away. He considered returning her attention to make Manon jealous, but he doubted it would work. And his self-esteem wasn’t so battered that he needed her approval like that. But Nyx, like all the other Crochans, was lovely, and Dorian had always treasured attention from lovely women. Chaol had always rolled his eyes about it, but Dorian had always told his friend that he was missing out.

As they turned a corner on the winding jungle path toward the temple Aine had mentioned, two Crochans stepped in their path and halted their progress. One was the ash-haired one from earlier, and the other was a slender and pale witch with dark eyes and long brown braids on either side of her head. She stood the calm complement to the blonde’s sparking energy. Asterin and Sorrel hissed and unsheathed their iron nails, but Manon stood calmly, face-to-face with the ash-haired Crochan glaring at her.

“Laurel, Kajsa,” Nyx said first to the witch with braids and then to the blonde. Laurel nodded at her, but the blonde kept her gaze fixed on Manon.

“Aine and Aellai may choose to ignore what you did to Rhiannon,” growled the blonde witch, “but I never will.”

“Kajsa . . .” Nyx murmured from Dorian’s side.

“Hush, Nyx,” Kajsa spat. “How very like you to sidle up to and flirt with the first handsome man you see.”

Dorian smirked despite himself. Nyx, to her credit, planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. “Like you don’t do the same.” Laurel sighed and shook her head.

“Not handsome men who ally with Kinslayers.”

“Kajsa, let the young thing be,” Laurel said, but her Terrasen-accented voice had an air of resignation to it. As though she knew there was no calming the pale witch.

“Have you forgotten Rhiannon, Nyx?” Kajsa demanded. “Because I won’t.”

“Good,” Manon said, drawing Kajsa’s icy glare back to her. “I’m glad you won’t forget, because neither will I.” She glanced at Dorian and then back at Kajsa. “I am a Kinslayer--I know this quite well. I will not shy away from that fact to woo you all. I come exactly as I am. My grandmother ordered me to kill my half-sister and I did it without truly questioning it as I should have done. I have learned something from that. Fond feelings didn’t bring me here, and fond feelings won’t get us through this war. So if you would step out of my path, I’d rather like to move forward.”

Kajsa’s icy eyes sparked, but something like respect crossed her features. She relaxed her pose and stepped out of the way, and the tension in Laurel’s shoulders eased. Laurel’s eyes met Manon’s and a dark eyebrow lifted as she appraised the Ironteeth leader, her eyes making a quick sweep of Manon’s figure. Dorian’s stomach clenched with jealousy. It was idiotic of him--Manon had made it clear that she wasn’t his queen. She could do what she pleased. And she was beautiful. He hardly faulted Laurel for looking.

Dorian glanced at Nyx and suddenly felt like a royal ass.

The witches moved on and after a mile or so, a stone structure appeared in the midst of the thick vines and low-hanging branches. The witches who had accompanied them spread out around the outside of it. Some Crochans were already at the temple and Aine and Aellai approached them. They used the same gesture of respect that Dorian had observed Manon’s witches doing. Aellai gestured for Manon and Dorian to come closer.

“This is Veda, the temple guardian,” Aine said, indicating a witch with long dark waves and eyes that seemed to be examining every inch of them. “She’ll tell you what comes next.”

“This is a temple to the Three-Faced Goddess,” Manon said, observing the place.

Veda crossed her arms over her chest and glared critically at Dorian, Manon, and the two other Ironteeth. “Do not pretend we worship the same goddess, Manon Blackbeak.”

Manon narrowed her eyes. “All witches worship the Three-Faced Goddess.”

Veda scoffed, tossing her head in an imperious gesture. “Don’t be a fool. You worship a corruption of the Three-Faced Goddess. You Ironteeth have split her image apart and put her to your own vile uses. You stripped her of the best and kept the violence for yourselves.”

“You accuse of things are ancestors are responsible for,” Asterin protested. “We did not do this on our own.”

Veda smirked. “No, and neither did your ancestors, for that matter. The Ironteeth were deceived by a great a dark force--one that wore the face of our goddess and started you on the path of death and destruction.”

“What dark force?” Manon asked.

Veda shook her head. “Such secrets belong to the Crochans, and you must first prove that you are one of us.”

“I have Rhiannon Crochan’s face,” Manon said baldly. “What more proof do I need?”

“A blood test. One that will prove that your blood runs truly blue.”

“Of course my blood runs blue!” Manon snapped.

“Only the Three-Faced Goddess will know that for sure,” Veda said. “We can trust none whose blood may turn black, for they are host to the darkness.” Dorian shivered as he was reminded of his captivity.

“I’ll do it first,” Asterin said, stepping forward.

Veda raised her eyebrows and then shrugged. “As you wish. See this stone?” she indicated an iridescent, almost reflective stone set into a basin. “It is infused with witch mirrors and is blessed by the Goddess. Spill your blood upon it and it shall reveal the truth. If it glows blue, you are free from the corruption that threatens us. If it turns black . . . you are our enemy.”

Asterin drew her iron nails out and slid one of them against her pale skin without even flinching. Dorian admired the tenacity. Blue blood bubbled forth and she let it drip on the stone. The stone glowed bright for a moment before dimming, but Dorian realized that it had shifted from a soft gray color to a bright blue like sapphires. Veda nodded in pleasure and a few of the Crochans cheered. Sorrel followed next, and there was the same result. Dorian found himself almost smiling.

Manon strode forward next and stared down each of the nearest witches before slicing her own arm open. Dorian grimaced at the sight of her pale skin so mauled. But the blue dripped down, and the stone glowed far brighter than it had for either of the two other Ironteeth. Even Veda’s usually unimpressed face lifted at the sight of it.

“Proof enough?” Manon snapped as she stepped away from the stone.

Veda shook her head. “Your mortal must be tested as well.”

“Me?” Dorian asked. “I am human. My blood runs red.”

“Of course,” Veda said, “but we must still test for blackness.”

“It’s a formality,” said Nyx gently.

Dorian frowned, but he approached the stone and removed a dagger from his belt. The witches evidently had never felt threatened by it. He clenched his teeth as he drew blood from his arm and let the drops fall onto the stone. _One, two, three drops._

As he’d expected, the stone glowed brightly in a hue of red, and he’d almost turned away from the stone to walk back toward Manon when Veda reached out and snatch his arm. He turned back to look at the stone and his stomach plummeted to the ground.

The stone had turned black as obsidian.


	12. Chapter 12

 

Manon leapt back from the black stone at the same moment that several witches leapt on Dorian. Then she realized what was happening--saw their hands on him--and drew out her iron talons and teeth. “Release him!” she snarled.

“His blood is corrupted!” Veda argued. “He is working against you and the rest of us. He’s our enemy until proven otherwise.”

The words rattled about in Manon’s skull as she looked between the Crochans and Dorian, whose sapphire eyes were wide and whose mouth was drawn into a snarl. “You don’t understand!” Dorian protested. “It’s not me--I was enslaved by the Valg, but their hold has been broken. I’m not--I’m not _like_ them! I’m human!”

Manon could feel the chill in the air as his magic leaked out from his pores, activated by his panic. _Keep it together, princeling_ , she thought as she stared at him. If he lost control now, the Crochans would only take it as a sign that he truly did mean to harm them. With the rest of her coven and her wyverns left far behind, Manon wasn’t sure she’d be able to fight him out of that situation--though she’d go down trying.

“Can’t you feel it?” Calliope demanded. “Ice and wind--the power of the Valg!”

“That makes no sense!” Dorian argued. “I have raw magic, from Elena Galathynius Havilliard, my ancestor.

“Your magic is raw,” Calliope confirmed, “but it could not possibly come from Gavin. Not after he asked Rhiannon to prevent raw magic from ever surfacing in his bloodline again.”

“Rhiannon did what?” Manon asked sharply.

“You think he wanted to take the chance that what happened with Elena could happen again? I can see you know what I’m speaking of,” Calliope spat. “This young king’s magic cannot belong to Elena Galathynius.”

Manon’s blue blood turned icy in her veins. “That does not make him your enemy.”

“It does when the witch stone showed his blood turn black,” Aine said. “That shows that he _isn’t_ human. Or at least . . . not entirely.”

“Is anyone going to start making any _rutting_ sense?” Dorian growled, thrashing unwisely against the witches that held him. Manon blinked. The king didn’t usually swear that forcefully. She liked that side of him.

Aine was smiling, a fierce wicked thing that promised no mercy. “Did you ever wonder, _Your Highness_ , about your father? How the Valg’s influence upon him might have influenced you in turn?”

Dorian stopped fighting and stilled, his eyes focusing on Aine and his teeth gritted. Manon was still, her eyes scanning every obstacle and enemy even as she listened closely to the Crochan.

“Your blood is not black because of the collar you wore,” Aine said, her words sharp, each like a needle shoved into the skin. “Your blood is black, Dorian Havilliard, because you _are_ Valg. Son of one of their princes, a prince in your own right. You might be the weapon they’ve been searching for all this time.”

“Lies!” Dorian roared, and something within Manon splintered at the sight of the animal rage in Dorian’s eyes. “I am not Valg! I don’t--I would never--”

“There is a _reason_ you survived,” Aine said. She was about to continue, but Dorian cut her off.

“A ring--Aelin Galathynius put a ring upon my finger that suppresses the Valg, breaks their hold. If I was Valg, it would have broken me, too.” _Wouldn’t it?_ He didn’t voice the words, but Manon could hear them nevertheless.

“You are enough human to have survived. And the heir of the Fire-Bringer was not seeking to destroy you. Even she could not think to target the Valg in your own blood--the Valg in your own soul.”

Dorian roared in fury and began thrashing again, but the witches held him without trouble. The air was growing steadily cooler around them. Manon almost forgot they were in a jungle, and she thought she could see the edges of the swampy pools of water around them frosting at the edges.

 _Valg_. How was it possible? How had she not scented it? She’d spent months amidst the Valg in Morath, and yet her senses had deceived her with Dorian. But had they? She remembered that day in the forest clearing, when the darkness in his eyes had fled from the gold in hers. Her eyes, the eyes of the Valg kings . . .

“You’re all hypocrites!” Manon spat. “All of us are daughters of the Valg. We would not be witches without out Valg fathers, and yet you would string him up for the Valg in his blood?”

“His nature is not ours!” Aine argued. “Unlike you Ironteeth who relish in the chaos the Valg bring about, we have forsworn that heritage and seek to heal and mend--not destroy.”

“How do you know he would not do the same?” Manon demanded.

“It is too late for him! He already wields Valg magic. He has already killed. The darkness plagues his spirit even now--we can all sense it.” Crochan heads bobbed their agreement all around them. Aine tilted her chin up. “He must be eliminated.”

A massive, thundering noise echoed throughout the clearing and the witches cringed. Manon searched for the source of the sound and her mouth dropped open as she saw the frail Aellai wielding a mallet, which she had just used to strike a gong within the temple. “You are all fools!” she declared, fixing her glare especially on Aine and Calliope. “This king is not our doom, but part of the great puzzle that shall save us all!”

“You don’t know everything, Granny!” Aine argued. “All our lives we have fought to keep the black-blooded away from our sisters. And you would have us invite one in now?” She whirled to walk up the steps toward Aellai, her red hair a flag in her wake. “He’s what they were trying to find in Morath! They were using the Ironteeth to try and birth a Valg king . . . never knowing that one has been in this world for twenty years already!”

“I am _not_ a Valg king!” Dorian spat, his breath a puff of air in the chill surrounding him.

“He has the blood of the Valg kings but the heart of Gavin Havilliard,” Aellai proclaimed. “He is promised--he is not an enemy!”

“Perhaps we’ve listened to you too long,” Calliope said, stepping up to join Aine. “We’ve followed you as the eldest for centuries, but all that’s gotten us is this reeking outpost in this slime-hole of a jungle. No closer to getting our kingdom back, no closer to ridding the world of the scourge we swore to fight. Perhaps your way, Aellai, is not the way we ought to follow.”

“Release the king,” Aellai ordered.

Aine leaned in and hissed, “ _No_.” She snapped her fingers, and the handful of witches that held and surrounded Dorian all smash small glass beads on the ground, filling the air with suffocating smoke. Manon reeled back, shielded her eyes and nose, but by the time she righted herself, Dorian and a half-dozen Crochans were gone, leaving Aellai in a lump upon the altar and several younger witches clinging to each other in terror.

Manon crossed the path to the altar in three long strides and dropped to her knees over Aellai. “ _Where did they take him?_ ” she snarled, seizing the older witch’s shoulders.

Aellai coughed, her voice failing her again. She beckoned to one of the younger witches, one with longer ebony hair and rich brown skin. The young witch knelt beside Aellai and took her hand. She looked up at Manon. “I am Daeraya,” she said. “Aellai needs you to take her to Morla on the backs of your wyverns.”

“What?” Manon snapped. “I will do no such thing! My . . . the king of Adarlan has just been captured by _your_ witches. I am not leaving here until I get him back!”

Daeraya flinched but continued, “You will not find him here. But you will be reunited in Morla, where everything shall be explained and your army awaits you.”

“My army?” This gave Manon pause.

“Aellai knew the others would betray her. She’s been stalling them here for years while the Crochans regrouped in Morla. Rhiannon was leading them, until . . .” Daeraya swallowed. “They’re waiting, and you can rejoin your king there.”

“The others are taking him to Morla?” Manon asked.

Daeraya shook her head, her ebony hair glistening blue in the faint light. “We will take him to Morla.” She lifted her chin and looked at the other young witches, who approached Manon with no small amount of trepidation. Nyx had gone with the others, but there was another who looked like her, though somehow even more petite and covered with weapons from head to toe. There was one was a messy blonde mane whose mouth seemed locked in a permanent smirk. Another pale brunette stood on her toes, her fingers twitching as though she was itching for action. The last one was evidently older than the others and stood with her chin tilted up. A silver flask glinted at her side and she possessed a swagger that the others would only acquire with age. “Phrixa,” Daeraya said to the heavily-armed witch. “Nyx is already in--she’ll let you know where to find the king.”

“I’ll be the distraction,” the older brunette said, lifting her flask to her lips and taking a long drink.

Daeraya smiled slightly. “When Etain has them distracted, you, Kore, and Livia can get him through the witch mirror to Morla. I’ll be right behind you.”

“What about the others?” Livia asked, rubbing her fingers together to create friction. “They’re not all opposing Granny.”

“They will come in their own time,” Daeraya said, speaking Aellai’s words for her.

“What am I supposed to do?” Manon demanded. “You think I’m just going to let these younglings handle everything?”

“You will,” Daeraya said. Her face was nervous but her words forceful. “You must not spill Crochan blood, so you must avoid confronting Aine, Calliope, and the others. Fly Aellai to Morla on your wyverns, and leave the other Crochans behind here. If they attempt to follow, lose their trail. Whatever you do, you must make it to Morla and soon, in case Aine and Calliope have allies among the Crochans in Morla.”

“And I’m supposed to trust that the king will be safe with you until I make it to Morla?” Manon asked, her question harsh at the edges.

“You have no choice,” Daeraya said for Aellai. “But perhaps along the way I can tell you a thing or two about what it means to be a queen.”

Manon snarled and sat back on her heels, but then she glanced over her shoulder at Asterin and Sorrel, who were measuring each of the remaining witches in case they attempted an attack on Manon. “He remains in one piece. Not a hair harmed,” she said through gritted teeth, locking eyes with each of the young witches. “If I arrive and find otherwise . . . you might discover that our wyverns will be quite hungry after the long journey.” She flashed her iron teeth and Livia grimaced.

“You almost sound like you care about him,” Daeraya said, and Manon wasn’t sure if they were her words or Aellai’s.

Manon rose to her feet, fluid as a snake. “My father may have been Crochan, but I was raised with an Ironteeth’s heart. I care for no one.” Even as she said the words she knew they were a lie. She cared for so many--cared so much it hurt. But she would not let these fragile allies know what her weaknesses might be.

That Dorian might very well be one of them.

Daeraya sighed. “And that is the greatest shame of all.”


	13. Chapter 13

 

“How close are we?” Rowan asked as he looked out over the side of the ship. The wind ruffled his silver hair but his eyes were fixed ahead on the gray waters of the Iron Ocean. They couldn’t be far now. He couldn’t name exactly what it was, but he’d awoken this morning with a stronger sense of _Aelin_ on the other end of the bond. Something had shifted overnight, and Rowan felt as though he could reach out to her down the bond--as though she might respond. He had tried and not received any response to his prodding, but he could still feel her, living and breathing. It was a small comfort--he did not yet know what Maeve planned to do to her. Whatever it was, Rowan was determined to stop it.

Vaughan, after Elide’s endorsement, roamed the ship freely now. He leaned against the rail beside Rowan, his piebald hair rustling the same way Rowan’s did, though Vaughan’s was far longer. The limber Fae tilted his head as though taking measurements. “We should be fairly close,” he replied. “I was never given an exact location, but it’s around here. I . . . I can feel Shea. They must be nearby.”

Rowan’s throat tightened. “I can feel Aelin, too.” He straightened and folded his arms across his chest, refusing to tear his eyes away from the steely waters before him. “You both knew at once?”

Vaughan leaned into the railing, stretching his shoulders. “The moment we saw each other. It . . . our time was too short.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “You didn’t know Aelin was yours?”

Rowan gave one curt shake of his head. “Maeve . . . you know how I was. What she’d done to me. She was the one who had Lyria killed.” Vaughan swore. “So I was too far gone to see Aelin for what she was. And she was too broken to know me, too.”

“I didn’t know about that. About Lyria,” Vaughan said. “I want you to know that.” Rowan shrugged, but Vaughan continued, “I know it doesn’t make much difference now. But it felt important to say it.”

Vaughan chuckled to himself then, finally drawing Rowan’s eye to him. Rowan lifted a silver eyebrow and waited for an explanation.

“I was the one Maeve sent to order Aelin’s parents to send her every year,” Vaughan said. “It doesn’t surprise me in the least that you’re mates.”

“You never delivered her to Maeve,” Rowan said.

Vaughan shook his head. “I liked Evalin. The circumstances that surrounded her elopement were . . . frantic. I knew there was a reason she’d tried to get away from Maeve. But everyone who knew Evalin loved her, and I wasn’t immune. She never blamed me for my task, and when she pled for more time before delivering Aelin . . . I had to listen. I didn’t _want_ to force her to obey Maeve. And I wasn’t blind. I could see Aelin’s power as a child, could guess why Maeve wanted her. So I know what’s at stake. Maeve cannot have her as a weapon.”

“She won’t,” Rowan said through gritted teeth. He finally turned away from the railing and beckoned to Vaughan with a finger. “We’ll be there soon. It’s time to make plans.”

-

Elide sat in a chair in the captain’s quarters, feeling absurdly small beside the four massive Fae warriors--Rowan, Lorcan, Gavriel, and Vaughan. Rowan and Gavriel stood at the table with parchment in front of them, scrawling out lists of their advantages and disadvantages. One list looked far longer than the other, but she couldn’t make any of it out and never would. Lorcan loomed stormy-faced in the corner, the shadows of his magic swimming around him. Vaughan was stretched out in a chair opposite Elide. His eyes looked her over and she tensed as she thought of the tale Vaughan had told her . . . a tale of goddesses and lineage and dark origins. She still wasn’t sure she had anything straight, but she was coming to a conclusion about Maeve . . . one that did not bring her any ease.

She listened closely as the men speculated about what they would have to face. The iron island would rid them all of their magic, and only Lorcan and Rowan had much experience going for long without their magic. They went back and forth on how they could infiltrate the island without being seen or drawing Maeve’s attention. Considering they had no idea what they were walking into, the risks were tremendous. They went on for hours, and Elide stayed quiet, turning over all the options in her own mind until at last she had to interrupt Rowan and Lorcan in a shouting match.

“I should go,” she said quietly.

Rowan and Lorcan turned to face her, and she did not look away, even though Lorcan’s gaze made her chest hurt. “What?” Rowan asked.

“I’m the only one who won’t be affected by the iron,” Elide said matter-of-factly. “And I won’t be affected by the Valg.”

Rowan leaned forward and braced his hands on the table. “There are no Valg there.”

Vaughan straightened and stared wide-eyed at Elide. He could not breathe a word of this to them, but Elide was free to share what she could from their conversation yesterday.

“There are Valg,” Elide said. She sucked in a deep breath and committed to the theory she’d put together with her own suspicions and Vaughan’s information. “Maeve is Valg.”

“Bullshit,” Gavriel said, his tawny eyes flashing. “Maeve is no such thing.”

“Correction,” Elide conceded, holding up a finger. “She might not be Valg herself. But she is the mother of the Valg. Erawan’s mother.”

Horrified silence filled the cabin. Rowan ran his hand over his face and Gavriel had turned pale. Lorcan, however, quietly said, “Tell us what you’re thinking, Elide.”

Elide tried not to appreciate his attention and failed. “When she was holding that dagger to my throat, I knew she was not of this world. I could . . . I could smell it. She smelled like Morath, though it was far subtler and I wasn’t sure for a long time that it wasn’t just a result of my panic. I think the ring helped.” She held up her hand with Athril’s ring on it. “But I’ve been thinking a lot since Eyllwe about why Maeve doesn’t seem worried about Erawan, why she wants the Wyrdkeys, and why she wants Aelin. And I’ll spare you the long version, but if Maeve is immune to iron--like the Valg, unlike the Fae--and she delights in breaking people, just like the Valg . . . those are only two examples, but I have more. I’m not saying that I know what her ultimate goal is, but we cannot assume that she’s working against the Valg. I see call and response in her actions and the actions of Erawan. They’re working toward the same goal. They want more Valg Kings, and Erawan was trying to make them in Morath. Maeve is making similar weapons, while also eliminating the greatest threats against her. People like Aelin, and Shea, and all of you.

“But people like me . . . she’ll underestimate me. She won’t see me as a threat. Her iron island was not meant to fortify against people like me, and I’m the best equipped to get in and find out where Aelin is without being detected.”

There was another long moment of silence as the males pondered her words. Lorcan never looked away from her as Rowan and Gavriel muttered to themselves and made more notes on the parchment. Finally, Rowan looked up again. “I think she might be right.”

Lorcan snarled. “You must be joking.”

“Why?” Elide demanded. “You think I can’t do it?”

Lorcan glared at her, arms folded across his chest. “The last time you tried to take on Fae you nearly got your arm ripped off.”

“Because _you_ pissed Maeve off,” Elide argued. “And I’m fine now. I want to help. I can do this.”

“We might as well throw you overboard now,” Lorcan snapped. “It would at least be kinder than sending you to die in there.”

“You have _no idea_ what’s in there,” Elide replied. “And that’s the problem. I’ll go in, get information, and get out again.”

“How?” Lorcan demanded. “Are you just going to walk through the main gates?”

“Yes.”

This took Lorcan by surprise and he blinked. Elide just looked calmly at Vaughan. “You’re the only one among us still in Maeve’s good graces. You take me in, claim I’m another demi-Fae Maeve might be interested in, and no one bothers us. We’ll get a good look at the inside, figure out ways to get the rest of you in. We’ll get Aelin, Shea, and Fenrys out and try to escape before Maeve knows what’s happened.”

Gavriel looked at everyone and then sighed. “It’s the best plan we’ve got.”

“It’s not a plan at all!” Lorcan argued. “It’s madness! If they’re caught, then we have no hope. No way to get the queen, Vaughan’s mate. Maeve will _still_ be ahead of the game.”

“And whose fault is that, Lorcan?” Elide said coolly.

Gavriel sucked in a breath and looked nervously at Lorcan, whose expression had darkened into something fearsome. But as he stared down at Elide, his face was unreadable, and after a long, tense moment, he whirled around and stormed out of the cabin. Elide watched him go, her face impassive.

The awkward silence was broken when Elide hissed in pain. Something had flown through the window and hit her in the back of the head. She lifted her hand up and touched the back of her head, but the pain was fleeting. Then she glanced down and saw the folded up parchment on the ground at her feet. She picked it up and unfolded it, then quickly shook her head at the indecipherable words.

Gavriel took the parchment from her, and when his eyes scanned it he almost dropped it in shock.

“What is it?” Rowan demanded.

Gavriel shook his head slowly as Rowan reached for it. “It’s for you,” he said hoarsely, handing it to Vaughan.

Vaughan paled and took the parchment from Gavriel. When he read it, he let out a doleful cry and clapped his hand to his mouth. Then he hunched over the parchment, reading it again and again, tears forming in his eyes.

“What is it?” Elide asked quietly.

“It’s from Shea,” Vaughan said, his voice broken. “They feel me. They know I’m here, that I’m coming.”

Rowan stiffened. “Does Maeve know?”

Vaughan shook his head. “Shea’s not under her control, but they’re letting Maeve think they are. They say they think it’s because of the mating bond . . . it’s keeping them from falling into Maeve’s total grasp.” Vaughan’s breathing was ragged and he ran his hand through his two-hued hair. “Aelin is awake. They’ve seen her. And . . . Maeve is leaving the island. They don’t know how long she’ll be gone.” A tear finally slipped down Vaughan’s cheek as he held out the parchment to Rowan. “And she drew us a map.”

Elide held her hand to her mouth as the pieces fell into place. They had a map, an opening, and someone on the inside to help them. All the uncertainty they’d been facing minutes before seemed to diminish in a blink.

Vaughan was openly weeping now. “They’re all right,” he cried. “They’re all right. My Shea.”

Elide couldn’t bear to let Vaughan go on like that, so she rose to her feet and approached him. “Let’s go,” she said softly, extending her hand to him. He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked up at her gratefully. As he stood and she wrapped her arm around his waist, she glanced back at Rowan and Gavriel. “This is our chance,” she said solemnly. “Let’s try not to mess it up.”

-

Aelin rested as best as she could in her upright coffin, pressing her body against the door to allow her scars to heal. She only let a couple of tears fall at the realization that Rowan’s tattoos were gone now. But she remembered Sam’s words, and she knew that her ability to fight her way out of this was not dependent on those tattoos.

Her stomach growled--food was not brought often, and when it was, only the top half of the coffin door was swung open and her mask removed so she could be fed. She was never unchained, so she had to submit to being fed by the guard's hand. It took a lot of effort not to bite the fingers of whoever was feeding her. But she needed the nourishment, as embarrassing as this was.

During her meal the day after she’d been forced to witness the girl become Maeve’s slave, she was attended by the short-haired demi-Fae Maeve had called Shea. Aelin chose not to speak, but this was a wise decision, since the moment Shea had pushed the first offering of bland oats between Aelin’s lips, Shea hissed, “Do not say a word. I am here to help you survive this, but you have to listen very closely.”

Aelin hurriedly swallowed the oats and said, “How can I trust you? Aren’t you one of Maeve’s lackeys?”

“Not so good with the whole ‘listening’ thing, are you?” Shea sighed. Aelin grimaced, but she had to admit that Shea did not sound like the girl Maeve had tormented the day before. “My name is Shea and always has been. Maeve thinks she owns me, but she does not. Her little worm cannot take my heart or mind--because I’m mated.”

This time, Aelin was too shocked to retort in any way. Shea went on, “My mate is on his way here with your mate and several others. I can feel them coming. But they will not get here before Maeve tries to dominate you.”

“Who’s your mate?” Aelin asked.

“His name his Vaughan.”

“As in, osprey-Vaughan?” Aelin asked, repeating the question she’d asked her mother. Shea nodded. “He must not be happy that Maeve’s taken his lady.”

Shea’s dark eyes hardened “I am not a lady. Nor a gentleman. I’m Shea.”

Puzzled, Aelin looked Shea up and down, taking in the demi-Fae’s reddish-brown short-cropped hair and posture. “Ah. My apologies.”

“Accepted.” Shea shoved more food into Aelin’s mouth as they hurriedly said, “You will undergo the same procedure as the girl yesterday. It will be painful, and it will make you immune to iron. But your mating bond will protect you from the mind-control, if my theory is right.” Aelin opened her mouth to say something and was only greeted with another spoon of oats. “Cling to your bond with Rowan Whitethorn. But whatever you do, do not let Maeve suspect you’re still you.”

Aelin swallowed and nodded to show she understood. “There’s no way I can get out before then?”

Shea shook their head. “Maeve is still prowling and she’s left nothing to chance regarding you. But once you’re converted, she’s leaving the island for a time to take care of something in Erilea. That will be your chance to make it out.”

“Are there any others like you?” Aelin whispered.

Shea’s shoulders sagged. “No. Everyone else is under her command.” Shea’s black eyes were sad, and Aelin wondered what color they’d been before Maeve had infected them.

“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting another mouthful of food from Shea.

“Just have patience, Your Majesty,” Shea said. They glanced about to check for the arrival of other soldiers. “You’ll know from me when the time is right.”

Aelin wanted to respond more, to learn more about Shea and what this place was, but before she could say anything, Shea closed the mask over her face again and sealed up the top portion of the coffin. It was harder this time, to go back into the dark, knowing the light was so near. Knowing what stood between her and freedom. But it was enough to know that she had an ally on the inside. That, even without Rowan at her side, she wasn’t entirely alone.


	14. Chapter 14

 

Lysandra laid on her bed in her cabin, curled on her side with her arms banded around her waist. Her blonde hair cascaded over her forehead but she was too weary to push it away from where it tickled her nose. She was getting so tired of being stuck on this boat with little chance to get out and stretch her legs. Half the time she seriously considered just shifting into a bird and taking off through the sky for a while, but people here were so dependent on seeing Aelin around that she couldn’t risk disappearing. She dearly missed the sky.

She dearly missed her friend.

Lysandra cried herself to sleep almost every night now because of the loneliness that had opened like a chasm within her. Aelin--what had happened to her? Where was she? They’d received no word from Rowan, and Lysandra had to pretend that this was agreed-upon when Galan or the others would ask why her mate hadn’t been in contact. _Her_ mate. Ridiculous.

This whole thing was ridiculous, and it was made none the easier by the fact that she had screwed everything with Aedion. In aftermath of the chaos on Eyllwe, the news of her plan with Aelin had come about in the wrong way. They’d planned to share it, but Maeve had ambushed them and there had been no time. Perhaps if it had gone differently, Aedion might still be speaking to her. The coldness with which he looked at her whenever he passed her on the ship now stung her deeply, but she had no way to discuss it with them. There was too much possibility that someone would overhear and figure out that she wasn’t really Aelin.

Lysandra wasn’t totally sure Aedion would forgive her even if she did get the chance to talk to him.

On the bright side, acting as Aelin was easy. Having grown up beside her, Lysandra knew her mannerisms better than anyone else, and she’d become an excellent actress as part of her line of work. Still, it was emotionally draining by the end of the day. She wished she could be Lysandra again, and she hadn’t yet finished mourning the life she’d begun to dream for herself as Lady of Caraverre. It had been so beautiful, for just a moment.

Maybe there was still hope. Maybe Aelin could come back. Lysandra could be free again . . .

She hated the feeling that she was trapped again. Trapped in one skin, in one life, as she had been since she was a child. She didn’t regret it. She owed so much to Aelin and she wanted freedom for Erilea as much as anyone. If this was what that future required of her, then so be it. There was honor in that, dignity. It was just hard not to feel like the walls were closing in on her every night as she was drifting off to sleep.

It was mid-afternoon now, and the stirring wake of the Battle of Bellhaven had mostly cleared. Aedion had come to give his reports, but he had been cold and distant, nothing but professional. She had longed to see the distinctive flash in his Ashryver eyes, the telltale quirk of his mouth when he was about to laugh. But those things had been entirely absent. He’d warned her that the Whitethorns were starting to become suspicious at her hiding, but Lysandra didn’t have an answer yet. She hoped that her plans for Rifthold would help endear her to them--she’d be far from hiding for that battle. She just hoped they would be patient long enough for her to prove herself there.

Lysandra shot upright when the window of her cabin blew open on a hard gust of wind. She rose to close it, but before she could cross the room, two massive birds of prey swept in and alighted on the floor. Before they could shift, Lysandra hastily grabbed the nearby perfume and sprayed it on herself, doing what she could to disguise her scent before the Fae.

There were two bright flashes as Endymion and Sellene shifted before her. Lysandra’s breath caught in her chest at the beauty of them. They both shared Rowan’s silver hair, though they both wore it long. They were dressed in fine leather with the Whitethorn crest emblazoned upon their chests, and their sharp eyes looked Lysandra up and down.

“I’m not sure how they do things in Doranelle, but in Erilea it is generally considered rude to arrive in someone’s chambers uninvited through the window,” Lysandra purred, mimicking Aelin’s eyebrow twitch and displeased pout.

“We might have been more formal if we had been invited,” Princess Sellene said, her voice musical and clear as a bell. “But your cousin has been guarding you closely and has not allowed us to seek your audience.”

Lysandra tried to ignore the flare of appreciation in her chest. “He has his orders.”

“You were missed during the battle,” Endymion said, looking her up and down. “I am glad to see that you are recovered.”

“Not quite,” Lysandra replied. “The encounter with Maeve took its toll. I’m still regaining my strength.”

“The sight of your legendary fire would be encouraging to your army,” Enda said.

“And when it decides to reappear, you shall know,” Lysandra answered sharply. “My skill with magic is currently limited. I have other arsenals at my disposal, but they would have proved no use at the Battle of Bellhaven. When we arrive in Rifthold, however . . . if my magic hasn’t returned, I will make myself useful in other ways.”

“Oh? Such as?” Enda asked.

“I spent a decade learning every last corner of Rifthold,” Lysandra said, and she was pleased that in this statement at least, she didn’t have to lie. “I know that city better than the witches, better than the Valg or any of the other loathsome creatures that Erawan has cooked up. I will operate from the inside to ensure our victory on land while the witches are distracted with the ships.”

“How exactly do you mean?” Sellene asked, folding her arms over her chest.

“You’ve seen me call in my debts from across the continent,” Lysandra answered. “Well, I happen to know a great number of people who will be quite discontent that their city has been taken over by Ironteeth Witches. I intend to poke the hornet’s nest a bit.”

Enda smirked. “From what I understand, poking the hornet’s nest is one of your top skills.”

Lysandra gave Aelin’s most serpentine smile. “Indeed.”

Just then, a gust of wind blew in from the still-open window, lifting Lysandra’s golden hair away from her face. She tried not to cringe and held her breath, but she knew it was too late when both Sellene and Endymion went stiff, their nostrils flaring.

In the next moment, Lysandra was pinned to the wall, Endymion’s dagger at her throat.

“ _Shapeshifter_ ,” he hissed, pressing the blade into Lysandra’s skin. “Imposter!”

Lysandra resisted the urge to struggle and instead slipped her hand down her thigh to where she had a knife strapped. She hissed in pain when Sellene lashed out with her preferred weapon--a silver whip. “Don’t you dare move, shapeshifter,” Sellene hissed, the music gone from her voice. “Who are you?”

Lysandra swallowed and her skin scraped the edge of Enda’s knife, drawing blood. “My name is Lysandra,” she said hoarsely, knowing there was no point in lying to these purebred Fae. “I am a lady in Queen Aelin’s court. She assigned me this task while she pursues the final Wyrdkey.” The lie that they had agreed upon in case of this very situation tumbled from her lips. Even though Enda and Sellene had discovered the ruse, they did not need to know that Aelin was in enemy hands.

“Is that where Rowan went off to as well?” Enda asked. Lysandra felt the pressure of the dagger ease slightly, but not near enough to give her space enough to slip away. The urge to shift into something small and flexible itched beneath her skin, but she didn’t want to further alarm the Whitethorns.

“Yes,” Lysandra said quietly. “She did not want her armies to think she had abandoned them. So she left me here in her stead.”

“But she will return?” Enda demanded.

Lysandra nodded as much as she could without allowing the dagger to pierce her skin further. This was a lie she could not vocalize. She hoped and prayed every day for Aelin’s deliverance, but she had to prepare herself for the possibility that Aelin never would return--that she would indeed die to forge the Lock and leave Terrasen in Lysandra’s hands.

Enda drew back and Lysandra’s hand flew to her throat. Droplets of blood stained her fingertips, but Enda did not apologize. “I take this to mean that we will not be relying on any fire magic at all during our attack on Rifthold?” His eyebrows were lifted so high that they almost disappeared into his sweep of silver hair.

“Well . . . maybe not _my_ fire magic.”

“Pardon?” Sellene asked.

“If we look in the right spots, there may be some leftover power from when we knocked down the clock tower and freed magic,” Lysandra said. “Not to mention the magic users who have recently come into their powers. The witches will be after them, and I wouldn’t be surprised if many have already been taken captive. But if we can free them, follow Aelin’s old contacts, and give them a figurehead to rally behind, we may have more help in Rifthold than we currently imagine.”

Enda and Sellene glanced at each other. “At least Her Majesty appears to have left us with a capable substitute,” Enda admitted.

“No one else can know about this,” Lysandra said firmly. “This entire plan depends on everyone believing that Aelin Galathynius has returned with an army. The figurehead. I may not be her in truth and I may not have her magic, but it is the face people need. If they lose that, everything begins to fracture, and we’ve already come too far.”

“She’s right, Enda,” Sellene sighed. She levelled a glare at Lysandra. “Do not by any means think we are pleased with this deception. You and your queen both shall have to answer for it when she returns.”

“We’ll see what Prince Rowan has to say about you threatening his mate.”

Enda hissed and narrowed his eyes. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Lady Lysandra. Let’s hope you can keep up.”

Lysandra just folded her arms over her chest and tilted her chin up defiantly. “Likewise, Prince. Likewise.”


	15. Chapter 15

 

The wind gusted through Manon’s hair as she soared over the edge of the Bordano Jungle on Abraxos’s back. The small Crochan Aellai was seated in her mount ahead of her, but she had been blissfully quiet since they’d found the rest of the Thirteen and set off. Manon was not in the mood for chit-chat, not when her mind was distracted with the thought of Dorian. Every bone in her body cried out for her to _turn around, don’t leave him_. But Aellai had been right--she couldn’t face down the other Crochans without making even more enemies, and she had enough of those to go around right now.

She couldn’t help but feel like an idiot for letting not one, but two monarchs be snatched away by their enemies under her watch. Yes, there had been an agreement with Aelin. The Wyrdkeys that were still hidden away in her bags were worth saving, worth keeping away from Maeve. But the Crochans had taken Dorian right out from under her nose, and she hadn’t been able to save him. Not like he’d saved her.

She couldn’t remember if she had ever properly thanked him for pulling her out of the ocean. She wished she could thank him again.

Asterin coasted beside her on her sky-blue mare, who huffed at Abraxos. A low, friendly growl stirred in Abraxos’s throat and Manon patted his side. She signaled to Asterin and Sorrel--they’d been flying for half a day and it was already dark. They’d left the Bordano Jungle behind and the earth below them had given way to open, stony fields not much good for planting. There weren’t any villages, so it would be easy to find a spot to remain concealed for the night. They would need their rest--once they went further north, their odds of encountering ilken or other Ironteeth increased. There wasn’t much reason for the Ironteeth to be out in this direction, Manon thought, but they couldn’t be too careful.

Once Sorrel had located a former river basin covered in shale, the witches set down in formation, the wyverns creating a protective barrier around them. The night cooled significantly, and Manon was thankful for the fire. Two of the wyverns perched upon the edges of the ravine with their wings spread out to help conceal the glow from overhead. They were high enough that the heat wouldn’t burn them, and they were trained to raise an alarm should they glance anything. The Shadows would join them later to take first watch.

Once they’d eaten, Manon cast aside the remains of the chicken leg in her hand, rubbed her greasy fingers on her leggings, and stared down Aellai and Daeraya. The younger witch had chosen to come to intercede for Aellai should she need it. “So. What awaits us in Morla?”

Daeraya glanced at Aellai, who nodded and began to speak. “Before she attempted to find you, your half-sister Rhiannon was gathering the Crochans back in the Morla, the ruins of our ancient city. She suspected it would be the best place, because the Ironteeth had abandoned it because of the curse.”

Out of habit, Asterin and Sorrel both snarled at the reminder.

“No need to be so upset,” Aellai tutted. “The curse states that the land will not flourish under any who fly the Ironteeth banner.”

“Exactly!” Asterin exclaimed. “We are forever banished.”

“Your sisters, perhaps, but not you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Manon asked.

Aellai smiled serenely. “Do you fly under an Ironteeth banner?”

Manon and her Thirteen glanced around at each other, all realizing that since Manon had defied her grandmother, they were all considered traitors. And since Manon was Crochan, as well . . . “I suppose not,” Manon said, and even after all that had happened, the admission was difficult to make.

“One of our elders, a cousin of mine, prophesied that there would be another Crochan Queen, one who would repair the rend between our houses,” Aellai said. “Your father Idwal was under my protection there for a good many years, until your mother Lothian was brought to us after her own hunt for Crochans went wrong. I’m sure you can imagine the rest from there.”

Manon sneered. She could imagine it, and she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Mortal enemies, falling in love, _hoping_ . . . an Ironteeth witch was not raised to hope. Manon had rarely wondered about her mother, but now Lothian occupied more of her thoughts than Manon thought she ought to.

Aellai started hacking as the smoke from the fire irritated whatever problem it was that made her speaking skill limited. Daeraya fetched her some water, and when Aellai continued to wheeze, Daeraya took her hand and picked up where she left off.

“Rhiannon grew up knowing that you would be the next Crochan Queen, which was why she tried to hard to find you when it became clear that the Valg were returning. She, along with many others, knew that the Valg could only be defeated if the Witch Kingdom became whole again. So she began raising an army to be ready for you, when the time came.” Daeraya’s eyes brimmed with tears. “None of us knew how deeply you’d been ensnared. But you’re free now, and they’re still waiting for you.”

“That explains why our hunts have been dwindling the past few years,” Manon said, and Thea and Kaya nodded. “You’ve all been holing up in the north.”

“Training. Readying ourselves for this very moment.”

“This very moment . . .” Manon gripped her knees and leaned forward. “I think I’m about done wondering just what your  _friends_ were blathering on about concerning the King of Adarlan. I proved my blood runs blue. I demand to know what _puzzle_ you were talking about.”

Daeraya glanced at Aellai, who nodded. Daeraya drew in a deep breath and said, “We witches know the importance of Three. Our goddess has three faces, your Ironteeth have three clans . . . three is a sacred number. It has been so even before the first beings graced Erilea so many millennia ago.”

Manon considered this, tracing her bottom lip with her iron nail. “True. The three fae sisters, as well. Mab, Mora, and Maeve.”

Daeraya flinched, but she didn’t explain why. “Erilea is splintered, and it has been for a long time. The splintering of the witches is just one symptom of a greater fracturing that has occurred in our realm since it was first whole and good.”

“Chaos comes to everything,” Ghislaine said. “The world is inclined to decay. It’s the natural order of things.”

“Not quite,” Daeraya said for Aellai. “The Fae, for instance, do not decay. At least, not on the outside. Neither do witches. We decay inside, instead, and humans decay in both. Valg _are_ decay. But the Valg do not belong to Erilea. It is their lurking presence that brings such deadliness to our world.”

“So we must eliminate the Valg,” Manon said simply. “That’s what we’re trying to do already.”

Aellai held up a finger, and Daeraya said, “You cannot defeat death with death.”

Manon sat up straighter and glanced around at all the witches. “But you know about the Lock, don’t you? The one Aelin Galathynius must forge? She’s supposed to die to banish Erawan forever.”

Aellai shook her head. “No,” she croaked.

Stricken silence fell over the witches. Even the wyverns were preternaturally quiet as Manon waited for Aellai to continue.

“Three are needed,” Aellai said, her voice rasping. She squeezed Daeraya’s hand, and the young thing grimaced.

“The only way to combat the fracture in our world is to _heal_ that fracture. The three pieces are the humans, the Fae, and the Valg. They must work together to eliminate the fissures in our world in which the Valg creep and hide.”

“Work with the Valg?” Manon demanded. “We’ve seen the foolishness of such endeavors. That is what my grandmother is doing!” She almost shuddered as she thought of the witch-mirror weapons, the stench in Morath, the _creatures_ the Yellowlegs coven had been forced to bear. Manon wanted to be nothing like that.

“Yes, but not in the way you suspect,” Daeraya continued. “It is well known that the races never stayed totally separate. All of us here are the result of the Fae mating with the Valg. And there are demi-Fae who are human and Fae. This is not surprise to anyone. There’s just one missing piece.”

Manon let out a low breath. “Human and Valg.”

Dorian.

Aellai nodded eagerly. She cleared her throat and said in her own voice, “Aelin Galathynius believes that she must work alone to forge the Lock. But the Lock will be that much stronger if she, a child of Fae and humans, unites with you, a child of Fae and Valg, and King Dorian, a child of human and Valg. The three of you together possess such power the world has never seen. And together you can seal Erawan and his beastly mother back where they came from.”

“Mother?” Manon demanded. “Erawan has a mother?”

Aellai nodded, but her shoulders slumped. “Queen Maeve is the mother of the Valg. Not Valg herself, but their progenitor.”

Manon felt her iron teeth slide down and click into place as her ire at the fae queen rose. Now it seemed even more important to keep the Wyrdkeys away from her, if she was what Aellai and Daeraya claimed. But she _did_ have Aelin. Manon hoped that Prince Rowan would be able to get her back before Maeve managed to do much harm to or with her. According to Aellai and Daeraya, Aelin was vital in stopping Erawan--but only if she could join with Dorian and Manon.

“This all ends up as nothing if Dorian doesn’t make it to Morla,” Manon said, her voice deadly.

Daeraya shuddered. “We know. But we’ve been prepared for this a long time. Trust us--you’ll see him again in Morla.”

Just then, the wyverns overhead started rustling their wings and making low, rumbling noises in their throats. Asterin and Sorrel leapt up with Manon, their eyes to the sky. “Vesta, get the Crochans to safety,” Manon barked, and Vesta nodded. “Edda, Briar, what do you see?”

The shadows peeked over the edge of the ravine upon which they’d been perched near the wyverns. “It’s not good, Wing Leader,” Briar said.

“ _What do you see?_ ” Manon hissed.

“Ilken,” Edda said, her face paling. “Hundreds of them. Coming this way.”


	16. Chapter 16

 

At long last, the iron island loomed in the distance. Elide grabbed the bag that she had prepared with supplies and stashed it in the small rowboat kept on board, and then she climbed in with Vaughan as he lowered them down the pulley system. Soon they were afloat on the choppy gray waters, and Elide sucked in a breath, suddenly aware of just how small she was compared to this ocean. She huddled in a blanket--though the temperature here was generally warm, today the air was bitter cold with the approach of dark storm clouds.

Vaughan took care of the rowing and used his magic to gently push them along and save time. As they got closer to the island, however, his magic flickered out and he was forced to use primarily his own strength.

Elide had bound her breasts again and tucked every last strand of her dark hair up in a kerchief tied securely around her head. She’d bleached her eyebrows so that her hair color couldn’t be guessed, and she resumed the meek and timid posture she’d perfected as Vernon’s servant. Vaughan looked at her critically and said, “You’ve had to do something like this before, haven’t you?”

Elide nodded. “This place feels like Morath.”

“Why bother disguising yourself?”

“Maeve has only encountered me once,” Elide said, “and I was more myself then. So if I take away my most distinguishing features, she might not know me, even though she held a dagger to my throat once.”

“She might not have cared enough to learn your features,” Vaughan said.

“Exactly.”

Some time later, Vaughan rowed the boat up to the docks, and he assumed his own kind of disguise--the cockier edge he’d had when he’d first arrived on their ship. He jerked Elide up out of the boat, and the manacles she wore around her wrists jangled. The chains had been her idea, though she’d refused to wear them on her ankles. She needed something to complete the image she and Vaughan wanted to present. She kept her head down as Vaughan nodded at nearby guards, who hardly reacted to their arrival. He led her roughly to the main gates, where other guards finally stopped them.

“I am Vaughan Windcrest, bloodsworn to Her Majesty Queen Maeve. I have another demi-Fae for her examination,” he said to the nearest guard.

The guard stared at Vaughan with depthless black eyes. “Queen Maeve is occupied. Take the prisoner to the cells.”

“Happily, if you’ll show me the way.”

There was no emotion on the guard’s face, but he turned and led Vaughan and Elide through the main gates and into the massive iron structure. The walls were sheer and windowless, with tall tower and intimidating archways. There were runes and figures there that Elide knew were not man’s language, though she could read neither. Horrifying sculptures and carvings of demons crawled up the walls and lurked in the doorways, and Elide’s trembling was not imagined. Nevertheless, she kept her head down but her eyes up, learning and memorizing the corridors as they walked. She would need to be sure of her way out after Vaughan left her.

It was a part of the plan she had not told Lorcan or the others. She had no intention of leaving the island until Aelin was free, and it would be up to her to locate Aelin as soon as Vaughan left her on her own. She had to admit that she was a bit worried for Vaughan, once Lorcan found out that they’d tricked him. But it had been necessary--he would have never let Elide come otherwise. It wasn’t his decision, but it was much easier going behind his back about this.

The guard finally led them to some kind of inner sanctum with cells carved into the iron all around the room. It was eerily quiet, not like the dungeons in Morath, which had always been filled with wails and screams. Elide remembered when she’d been thrown down there--the torment of it. This was not like that, but she could tell that if she was imprisoned here against her will, it would be torment just the same. It was so dark.

The guard indicated a thankfully empty cell and unlocked it so that Vaughan could put her inside. Vaughan insisted on taking the key, and evidently the guard was under orders to obey Maeve’s bloodsworn. So he passed over the key, and the moment the guard turned to walk away, Vaughan slipped it between the bars into Elide’s hands. She stuffed it down her blouse and then plopped down, looking forlorn and hopeless until both Vaughan and the guard had left.

Once she heard the clang of the door, Elide scrambled up onto her knees and looked around. She heard signs of life, faint sniffling and breathing, but there were no voices. She couldn’t see much, because the light given off by the veins of mineral in the wall only cast a faint blue tinge everywhere that was enough to make out shapes but not much else. She had kept a careful eye open earlier but had seen no guards stationed in the room. It appeared as though Maeve had her prisoners so subdued that there was no point in guarding them. Elide’s stomach twisted at the thought. She could feel the malaise in the air, the despair and terror that numbed and incapacitated. She was aware of it, but so far she was immune. She thanked Anneith for the ring around her finger.

 _Look closely. Keep your eyes to the right._ The guidance struck her, and Elide followed the goddess’s prompting. Through the dark she could hardly see anything, but she kept her eyes locked there, waiting for what her goddess wanted her to see.

Elide went numb in the time that passed and shifted on her knees, trying to get the blood flowing, but at long last a door opened on the other side of the room and a small figure walked in. The figure held a flameless lantern, and as they approached Elide sucked in a breath.

It was Shea. They matched Vaughan’s description exactly--except, of course, for the eyes. Shea said nothing as they approached a column to Elide’s right. Only, Elide realized too late, it wasn’t a column.

It was a coffin.

There was a loud creak as the top half of the coffin swung open and Shea began feeding its resident. Elide could not see into the coffin from here, but she knew in her blood exactly who it was. Relief washed through her blood along with the desire to bust out right now and save her queen, save Aelin, but she had to be patient. She had to bide her time. She could not try to get Aelin out alone, not without Rowan and the rest, and they could not come onto the island until Maeve left the next day. But Elide had memorized the maps and would know how to get them out once the coast was clear.

Shea closed the coffin again and left, and Elide did not stir until the the door clanged shut with a loud bang. Then she struggled to get the key to her cell out of her blouse and fumbled with it until she could swing it open just a bit. It hardly creaked as she slipped out, and she limped quietly across the cold floor to the coffin.

“Aelin?” she whispered. “Your Majesty?”

Elide heard Aelin’s chains clatter inside the coffin. “Who’s there?” Aelin demanded. Elide squinted to see Aelin peering through the bars on her coffin.

“It’s me. Elide Lochan,” Elide answered. “We’re here for you. Rowan is still on the ship, but--”

Elide was interrupted by Aelin’s broken cry. “You--no! You were supposed to stay safe! You all were!”

“And leave you here?” Elide asked. “Do you really think so little of us?”

Aelin whimpered. “No. No, I don’t. But--how?”

“Never mind that,” Elide said. “The moment Maeve leaves, we’re getting you out. We can’t risk it before.”

“But--” Aelin said, sounding afraid for the first time since Elide had met her, “tomorrow, she’ll--”

“Don’t be afraid,” Elide said. “You won’t be alone. I’ll be here with you.”

“Elide,” Aelin said with a broken voice.

“I have to go, before they catch me out,” Elide said. “Stay strong, Majesty. You’ll be out of here before you know it.”

“Elide--thank you,” Aelin gasped.

“It is an honor, Your Majesty.” Then Elide slipped away back to her cell and locked herself in, settling down for the chance to rest before the true challenge began.

-

Aelin cried herself to sleep that night. It had been one thing to hear from Shea that her mate was coming for her, that she hadn’t been left behind, but it was another thing entirely to hear Elide’s voice, to see the top of her head through the bars of her coffin. She was tormented by it--on one hand, she was so, so thankful and relieved that there was a way out of here, that she wouldn’t be trapped in this forsaken coffin forever. On the other . . . she had let Maeve take her so that her loved ones would not be targeted, and yet they had come for her, facing down Maeve’s island of enslaved demi-Fae. She clung to the message her deceased loved ones had given her, that she should not give up on her friends, that she was worth saving, but it was so hard when the terror at the thought that they could be harmed plagued her mind.

As she slipped off into the sleep, she thought of the bond between her and Rowan, reaching for him across it, as faint and dim as it was in her iron prison. Soon--she would see him soon. _I love you_ , she said to him down the bond. She didn’t know if he would understand her words from afar, but she clung to the love between them, fortifying herself as Shea had warned her to do.

Aelin was jolted awake hours later by the sound of the sanctum’s doors opening and the sounds of dozens of feet entering. She stiffened and tried to see what was happening. _Please don’t let them have found Elide_ , she prayed.

But no. Aelin had no proper sense of time, but it must have been the next day, because she felt the chill of Maeve enter the room along with her guards and soldiers. The door to her coffin was unlocked and swung open. Used to leaning up against the door, Aelin stumbled out, only the collide with a guard who grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. He was joined by another, and they held her still. Aelin knew she couldn’t have run, anyway. She’d been held upright for so long with no chance to rest her legs that she doubted she would have been able to get very far even if it hadn’t been for the guards and the dark queen surrounding her.

“Good morning, Aelin,” Maeve purred, her black eyes filled with wicked delight.

“Is that what time it is?” Aelin asked, cursing her own voice for coming out so weak.

“It’s time for you to learn what it’s like to be properly obedient,” Maeve said, her words lined with steel. “The power you possess should not belong to one as weak and young as you. It is put to far better use in my hands.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Aelin bit back.

Maeve snapped her fingers and the guards began to drag Aelin toward the chair in the center of the room where she’d witnessed the screaming girl be tormented not long ago. She struggled as best she could--she had the hope Shea had offered her, that perhaps she’d be all right if she clung to her mating bond. But still, she didn’t want _anything_ near her eyes, knew that this process was going to hurt . . .

She kicked at the guards, but her legs were as weak as she expected and it did no good. The guards dragged her down into the lower part of the room, to the wicked-looking chair, where they threw her down and strapped her everywhere. They didn’t even removed the chains she already wore, but they added more straps one each of her limbs. One guard seized her hair and snapped her head back so he could secure the strap over her brow. Aelin screamed and tried to thrash, but the strap was too tight.

Tears streamed down her face as she saw the guard lift the vial with the black worm in it out of the corner of her eye. She remembered, she _remembered_ \--the worm that the King of Adarlan had sent writhing about in her mind, trying to make her lose control, to burn it away. This was not the same kind of worm, Aelin knew, but she remembered the pain, and the embarrassment, and the fear. She tried to bite down on the hand that crossed her face to stretch her eyes open, but she was merely struck across the jaw, causing more tears to well up.

Aelin’s neck ached as she tried to avoid the incoming parasite, but it was impossible for her to get away, and the guard dropped the worm into the corner of her eye.

Aelin shrieked as the pain lanced through her eye socket. It was as though she’d been stabbed there, as though someone was trying to pry out her eyeball while she was conscious. She could feel the worm squirming about, burying deep, deep, deeper . . .

She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes tight, fighting past the pain, past the terror, until she thought of Rowan, thought of her mate, just as Shea had instructed her to do. _Rowan . . . Rowan!_ She repeated the name like a chant in her mind, over and over, etching it like Wyrdmarks upon her mind. _It can’t take me because I’m yours, Rowan_ , she thought. She visualized the bond between them, the thing latching her soul to his, impenetrable and untameable, no matter what machinations the vile queen nearby employed.

Aelin whimpered as the worm worked its way further into her, attaching itself to her nervous like a leech. But when it hit the threshold of her being, the part of her that it longed to control and subdue, it bumped up against a shield of light, a sheer wall too thick and bright for the worm to navigate. It tried--Aelin felt it writhing up against it, trying to get deeper, but Aelin strengthened that wall, the one erected by her mating bond. Her fists clenched at her sides as she poured herself into it, clinging to the hope of Rowan and the knowledge that her love for him could conquer anything--as could his love for her.

Soon, the worm gave up, and it stilled inside her to begin its other work. Aelin’s body still railed against the invasion, but the longer the worm lingered, the more a forgotten strength began to flood through Aelin’s veins. Deep within her, the embers crackled. With a scrap of consciousness that wasn’t focused on keep her mind her own, she fanned the flame there, encouraging it back to life as the weakness to iron left her body.

Aelin sucked in a deep breath and then exhaled.

And suddenly she was on fire.

The guards screamed and leapt back from her, overwhelmed by the intensity of her flame as it melted away the straps across her limbs and her forehead, as it superheated the iron around her ankles and wrists and yet did not burn her. She gasped her breath as she was finally set free, as her magic roared to life once again. She pushed off of the chair and rose to her feet, gazing with fierce intent upon the remaining guards and Queen Maeve.

“Aelin Galathynius, I command you to stop!”

Aelin’s fist clenched and she thought about how incredible it would be to just burn everyone here in this room and make her escape with Elide. But beside Maeve, she caught the eye of Shea, who gave her one terse shake of the head.

And Aelin extinguished her flames.

Aelin’s efforts were divided as she fed the wall inside her, protecting her mind from the worm that leeched the iron from her blood. She still remembered Shea’s warning-- _don’t let Maeve know that you’re you._

She had done this before, she recalled. With Arobynn. It was an old mask to wear. She let her face fall into an expressionless neutrality, gazing at Maeve with no recognition or emotion of any kind.

What is your name?” Maeve asked, delight filling her face.

“I have no name,” Aelin replied, echoing the responses of the girl she’d seen days ago.

“Good. I shall return your name to you so that all may know who serves me. Your name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I have given you new life. Whom do you serve?”

“Only the Dark Queen and Mother.” The words were bitter on Aelin’s tongue, but she delivered them evenly.

“Good. And what color runs your blood?”

“Black as obsidian. Black as home.”

Maeve’s eerie smile almost sent shivers down Aelin’s body, but she refused to succumb. Everything depended on her ability to play this role. “Return her to the coffin,” Maeve commanded.

“Is she not immune now, Your Majesty?”

Maeve glared at her guard. “With her, I will take no chances. When I am gone, you may test her from time to time, to ensure the worm has had its full effect. I want her ready to use when I return.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Despite the fact that every muscle in her wanted to flee, Aelin placidly allowed the guards to lead her back to the coffin and strap the iron mask back on her face. The iron at her wrists still glowed hot enough that they could not be removed. She held back the whimper of protest as the coffin was closed around her again--for the last time, she hoped. She caught the sight of shadows moving outside her tiny prison and she heard Maeve’s voice filter in.

“You’re mine, now, heir of fire. And together we’ll restore what’s rightfully mine. I do so admire your resistance . . . but it was always a wasted effort. But you can rest assured knowing that you will finally achieve your higher purpose--and give me what I have been dreaming of for thousands of year.” Maeve chuckled in her throat and then drifted away. Aelin did not let herself relax until the sanctum door slammed shut and the room went almost silent again.

Almost silent, because one sound still remained.

Elide Lochan, sobbing in her cell at the fate of her long-lost queen.


	17. Chapter 17

Rowan sat in the main cabin, hunched over with his hands draped over his knees. He focused on breathing in and out, centering himself so that he had enough energy to contribute to the glamour concealing their ship in the gray waters far from the island. Vaughan and Elide had left the previous day and had not returned. Rowan was nervous, but his mood was nothing compared to Lorcan’s. The older demi-Fae paced back and forth across the cabin, ire spilling off of him in black rivulets, as he ground his teeth together and snarled at anything that moved.

“They should have come back last night,” Lorcan said. “That was the plan!”

Rowan shrugged one shoulder, his attention elsewhere. Moments ago, he’d felt Aelin grasping at the bond between them, drawing comfort from it, and he sent her as much as he could while maintaining the glamour around the ship at the same time. His mind thus divided, he didn’t care much about Lorcan’s anxiety.

“When are we going to get them?” Lorcan demanded, stopping to stare at Rowan.

Rowan sighed and lifted his head, trying to bring his mind to what Lorcan was troubled with.

“We stick with the same plan,” Rowan said, his voice tight with impatience. “We’ve been over everything.”

“But this wasn’t supposed to happen!”

Rowan turned his head to the window as he felt a slight prodding at the shield. He allowed and opening for Vaughan to fly through, and soon the other warrior had shifted into the room with them.

A moment later, Lorcan had him pinned against the wall. “ _Where is she?_ ” he demanded. “Where’s Elide?”

Vaughan gripped Lorcan’s forearm and drew it away from his throat. “She’s on the island. With Aelin.”

Rowan’s head jerked up.

“What do you mean _with_ Aelin?” Lorcan growled.

“She’s in a cell there, readying herself to release Aelin when the time is right,” Vaughan said. Lorcan lunged again but Vaughan held up his hands. “She has a key. She’s completely free. It’s all a ruse.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Lorcan snapped. “If she’s discovered, she’s dead!” His voice broke on the last word and he stepped back from Vaughan, his expression tormented. “She’ll be dead and it will be my fault.” Lorcan pressed his hand to his face and retreated to a corner of the cabin, sinking into a chair and hiding in the shadows of his magic.

Rowan met Vaughan’s eyes. “You saw Aelin?”

“I saw her coffin.” Rowan growled but Vaughan continued, “I’m sure Elide has made contact. We’ll have her back--have them both back--as soon as Maeve leaves the island.”

“Which is when?”

“She wouldn’t see me. But from what I heard, she plans to depart tomorrow.”

Rowan rolled his shoulders, jaw tight. “Then we need to be ready to move.”

“At this point, I don’t think we could be more ready,” Vaughan said, jerking his chin at the endless plans he, Rowan, and Gavriel had written out.

“Fair enough,” Rowan agreed. He made to stand up, but suddenly there was white-hot pain shooting through his core, and he collapsed back in his chair with a groan. He squeezed his eyes shut and examined the source, realizing in horror that it was his bond with Aelin.

 _Rowan . . . Rowan!_ His name, repeated over and over in his mate’s voice, like a chant. It had been the first time he’d heard her voice in so long, and now it sounded terrified.

 _Aelin!_ He called back. He wasn’t sure if she could hear him the way he heard her, but it was worth a try. It was worth anything to take her pain and terror away.

_It can’t take me because I’m yours, Rowan._

_Forever, Fireheart. To whatever end._

Rowan’s fists were clenched tight against his thighs and his shoulders were tensed, but he latched onto the bond between them and sent as much of his strength as he could muster toward her. Whatever was happening, she was clinging to the bond as her only hope, and he would not leave her stranded. _I’m here for you, Aelin. I’m coming._

Then, Rowan felt it in his bones--the moment Aelin’s magic returned to her in its full capacity. It was like he had been holding his breath and only just now released it. That was how the awe of it washed through his blood. _There you are, Fireheart_ , he said. _You’re free. You are your own again._

The flare of magic winked out, but Rowan could tell it was deliberate. He had no idea what was happening and it was driving him mad, but he still felt Aelin there. She was all right. A tear rolled down his cheek as the reverberations of the chaos down the bond rippled through him. When he let out a long, shaky breath and opened his eyes, Vaughan and Lorcan were staring at him.

“Aelin has her magic back,” Rowan said hoarsely. “She’ll be ready for us, when we get to her.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to compose himself.

“We’ll all be ready,” Vaughan promised. He looked out the window in the direction of the iron island. “Let’s go get our mates.”

-

Chaol drummed his fingers against the table as he waited for word to arrive from the gonji. Three days had passed since the banquet held in their honor, and Chaol had done as the goni had instructed and not returned to the palace. He’d remained in the Torre Cesme instead, focusing on healing. He had to admit that the extra time spent stretching and building strength were helping, and he could stand for longer periods of time now. And this morning, to his intense relief, he’d been able to take a few steps.

Nesryn had kissed him when she’d seen it happen, and the echo of her lips on his still lingered. But at his incessant drumming, she whipped her head toward him and hissed, “Will you _stop_ already?”

Chaol smirked at her irritation but then curled his fingers into his palm. He was fidgety and nervous, because this whole trip would be worthless if he could not convince Sartaq to join with them. He’d placed all of his hopes on his wife, Yrene, and Chaol had never done well with a lack of control. “I don’t know when they’re coming,” Chaol said.

“They’ll get here,” Nesryn said, standing to stretch her lithe body. “I like the gonji. I think she’ll do right by us. By Erilea.”

“I hope so.”

Chaol looked up then at the sound of movement outside their chambers, and at long last, the announcement came that the jinong and the gonji were approaching. Chaol braced his hand against the table and slowly stood up, thankful that he’d allowed Nesryn to put him in a slightly nicer tunic.

He bowed as much as he was able when Yrene and Sartaq entered, Yrene guiding her husband by the elbow. Both of them were dressed in the same kind of colorful finery that they had worn when Chaol had first met them, but in the smaller chambers of the Torre Cesme, they seemed not to fit the room.

“Lord Westfall,” Jinong Sartaq said in his deep, accented voice. Chaol tried not to flinch at the title--it was appropriate, given that he was the Hand of the King, but he still hadn’t gotten used to it.

“Jinong,” Chaol replied.

“My wife has been pleading your case to me over the past several days,” Sartaq said. “She is quite worried about her homeland and the safety of our own empire. She has told me that the Valg threat in your land will not remain isolated and may bleed to our holdings. Based on the tales I’ve been told about the effects of the Valg, I have decided that this is a scenario that I cannot risk.”

Chaol said nothing, though his throat was tight. This sounded good, but he refused to get his hopes up.

“My question to you is this,” Sartaq said. “What forces specifically would you request to come to your aid?”

Chaol drew in a calming breath. “Ships to combat the armada still under the control of Erawan, to begin, but primarily a ground force to ally with and supplement the forces of Eyllwe and Melisande as they plan to march on Morath.”

Sartaq nodded slowly. “I have been in contact with Prince Reseph and Prince Asa, who have been able to rally in the wake of Adarlan’s oppression. They are prepared to join their forces with mine, should I provide them.”

Chaol swallowed and dared to say, “Do you plan to provide them?”

Sartaq raised his eyebrows, but then he gave a stiff nod. “This is not a fight that would be wise to sit out. If I stand by now, my father’s empire will suffer later. If I plan to be khagan one day, then this is not a chance I can take.”

Chaol close his eyes briefly, sending thanks to the gods for their intervention. He wasn’t a failure--he’d succeeded in the task his king had assigned him. For the first time in ages, the weight that had pressed down on his shoulders for months now seemed to lift, just a little. “Thank you, Your Highness,” Chaol said.

“Thank the gonji,” Sartaq said. “If she had not taken up your cause I might not have bent so readily.”

Chaol bowed to Yrene. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Sartaq said, “Prepare your allies and join me at port tomorrow morning. We shall set forth immediately--and give our enemies no chance to prepare.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Chaol said eagerly. Sartaq and Yrene turned to leave with their attendants, and Chaol slumped in relief, though he was still comfortable standing.

“You did it, Westfall,” Nesryn said, striding over to him with a grin on her face. “You’ve served your king. I knew you would.” Chaol blinked away the emotion in his eyes as Nesryn looked up at him and laid her hand on his cheek. “You’re a good man, Chaol. And now you get to go home.”

“We do. _We_ get to go home.” Chaol’s voice was hoarse, but he did not care. All that mattered was Nesryn and the feel of her lips against his as he bent down to kiss her--for once, not holding back.


	18. Chapter 18

 

Dorian’s head ached and his fingers were numb with cold. He opened his eyes and blinked several times, realizing that he was in a room so dark he couldn’t see anything anyway.

“Why haven’t we killed him yet? That’s what I want to know,” muttered a witch from outside the room.

“It’s Aine’s call,” said another. “I think she wants to question him, first.”

“I hope she and Calliope know what they’re doing.”

Dorian remained frozen on his back, not wanting to betray his wakefulness. Still, he risked lifting his head just slightly to see slits in the wall--the door. The witches were on the other side, and they would have a hard time seeing him. He debated using his magic to bust out and fight his way back to Manon--he had no idea what had happened to her. And if he waited too long, the Crochans might kill him. For being Valg.

A wave of weariness and despair washed over Dorian and his head dropped back onto the moist ground. How? This was the answer that plagued him. There was a reasonable enough explanation, he supposed--his father had been possessed when Dorian had been conceived. Perhaps the Valg had had more influence on his birth than he’d ever imagined. It explained why the demon possessing his father hadn’t killed Dorian at his first signs of rebellion--why he had slapped that collar around his neck instead.

_A Valg king._

If that were true, wouldn’t he have golden eyes, like Manon’s? Wouldn’t it have been easier for him to fight off the creature that had squatted in his soul all those months?

 _He has the blood of the Valg kings but the heart of Gavin Havilliard_ , the elderly Crochan had said. Dorian wondered bitterly if it had been the heart of Gavin Havilliard that had convinced him to kill his own father in cold blood, knowing that the demon had left his body. Had it been the heart of Gavin Havilliard that had convinced him to leave his kingdom behind? Had it been the heart of Gavin Havilliard that held affection for a bloodthirsty witch?

 _He is promised_.

Dorian rubbed the palm of his hand over his face. He was sick of promises, of prophecies. He was sick of being a pawn in this game that had started centuries, millennia before he’d been born. He grasped at straws for choices, and yet the world spun out of his grip before he could get a grip on it.

Maybe he should just let the Crochans kill him, after all. Maybe it would make things easier on everyone.

His own cold magic stung his skin and he sucked in a deep breath. No. He had come too far. He had survived the Valg demon--he’d come out broken, but not shattered. Aelin had raised an army, and he _could_ get his kingdom back. And if he fought now, perhaps he would be a king worthy of Adarlan. At least, the Adarlan he hoped to build.

He would build it, he told himself. There were too many people in the world he still cared about. Both Aelin and Manon would need to rebuild their kingdoms, and without someone behind Adarlan whom they could trust, war might very well break out all over again. He was important, he told himself. Even if it felt like the darkness was only two steps away at any given moment. He could cling to and fight for the light. He would set aside the heart of Gavin Havilliard. That wasn’t good enough. He would need his own heart to get him through him. The heart of _Dorian_ Havilliard.

The voices outside his cell changed tone and Dorian listened closely.

“Break time,” chirped a new voice. Nyx. Dorian recognized her accent.

“You expect us to believe that Aine and Callisto would send you down here to replace _both_ of us?” said one of the witches.

“Kajsa will be here soon,” Nyx said, her words taking on a sharper edge. “You think I can’t handle him for two minutes?”

The others muttered to themselves, but Dorian watched their shadows fall across the wall as they stomped away.

There was silence for a long moment before the door to his cell creaked open. Dorian shot up into a seated position, readying to deploy his magic.

“No need for that,” Nyx tutted, swinging the door shut and crouching down in front of him. Dorian could only see her silhouette until she lit a small lantern in her hand. The shadows skated across the planes of her face as she smiled.

“Here to bring tidings of my death?” Dorian asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Nyx gasped. “No!” She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m not with them.”

“Who are you with, then?”

“Granny and the others. I’m going to help you get out of here.”

“Why?” Dorian demanded.

“You think I’d let them kill someone as handsome as you?” Nyx winked, but then blushed as she realized her own sauciness.

Dorian chuckled beneath his breath. This young Crochan was endearing, he could give her that. “What exactly is your plan, Nyx Morana?”

Nyx reached into her bag and pulled out a rather heavy-looking box. Dorian watched with increasing interest as she began to unfold the box--not a box, in fact, but a segmented witch mirror.

Dorian glared at the mirror, which had unfolded and pieced together to form a mirror about the size of his torso. “Are we supposed to use it like a door?” he asked.

“Yes, exactly!” Nyx said excitedly.

Dorian shook his head. “I’ve seen one of those work before. The last time my friends came out of one, they weren’t in very good shape.”

“Oh, this isn’t one of _those_ kinds of witch-mirrors,” Nyx assured him. “This one really is just a door. It’ll get us out of the cell and to a more open location where we have a better chance of fighting our way out. My sisters will meet us there and we’ll get you to another door.”

“Where exactly will we be going?” Dorian asked.

“Ultimately, Morla. Your Ironteeth witch and her coven will meet us there. We just have to hop between mirrors for a while until we end up in the right place.”

Dorian heard faint voice outside his cell and realized he didn’t have any other options. “If I lose my mind in there . . .” he warned.

“Don’t worry! I’ve been in and out lots of times, and I’m fine!” Nyx’s giggle did not reassure Dorian, but he gave a sigh and nodded in agreement.

Nyx propped up the mirror against the wall and gestured for Dorian to touch it. He carefully reached out and touched the cool glass, and a sensation like falling backwards or into nothingness washed over him, and he tumbled about, disorientated, until he fell flat on his face on a wooden floor.

He hissed out a cursed and lifted up onto his elbows, checking his cheek for splinters. Then he collapsed back on the ground again when Nyx fell out of the mirror right on top of him.

“Oh! Sorry!” she cried, rolling away. Her face was bright red as she glanced at him. “Your face is fine, by the way,” she said, noticing how he still touched his cheek.

Dorian looked around the room and saw that they were in the meeting room where they’d first been brought upon arrival at the stronghold. The room was empty, save for a couple of tiny figures lurking by the doorway.

Dorian sat back on his heels, preparing to lash out with his magic at the heavily-armed witch with features similar to Nyx, but Nyx grabbed his wrist. “She’s with us!” she whispered.

The other witch grinned wickedly and sharpened two daggers against each other.

“What’s the situation, Phrixa?” Nyx asked.

“We’re waiting for Etain’s distraction down below. Then we’ll sneak the king to the other witch mirror below.” Phrixa glanced from Dorian to Nyx. “You’re right. He _is_ handsome.”

Nyx hissed at Phrixa and blushed more furiously.

“I’ll lead the two of you down to Kore and trade off with her. Then Kore will take you to Livia. She’ll get you to the mirror,” Phrixa said. “We’ll all follow through after you once things have calmed down here.”

“We’ll wait for you at Briarcliff,” Nyx said.

“Briarcliff?” Dorian asked.

Nyx nodded. “Lots of places to hide, especially now that the queen is off on a campaign.” Dorian tried not to laugh at the disdain with which Nyx spoke of Ansel.

“Then to Morla?”

Nyx shook her head. “Too far. We have to go to the Frozen Wastes, first, and then to Morla. We should arrive the same time your Ironteeth do.”

“If that’s what it takes,” Dorian said. He cocked his head as he heard shouting on the ground below.

“That’s Etain,” Phrixa said with a smirk.

“What’s the ruse this time?”

“Her favorite--the drunken brawl,” Phrixa laughed.

“Let us know when it’s clear.”

Phrixa peered out the door and over the rail. The ruckus continued for a couple of minutes, and when it seemed to become more distant, Phrixa gestured them over. She urged Dorian down the ladder first, then followed with Nyx right behind him. When they were on the ground, Phrixa and Nyx led the way across the clearing to the base of another tree, then to another further away from the main path. A door concealed in the trunk of a tree swung open, and a blonde Crochan with a look of trouble on her face stepped out as though she’d been waiting for them.

“Kore,” Nyx said before Dorian could become alarmed. Nyx turned and threw her arms around Phrixa. “Don’t die, please. I’ll see you in Briarcliff.” Phrixa winked and then scampered off.

Kore appraised Dorian with her arms crossed over her chest. “So you’re the king who’s causing all the trouble,” she said. “That’s usually my job.”

“Not Etain’s?” Dorian quipped.

Kore barked out a laugh. “She wishes. Let’s go.” She motioned Dorian and Nyx to follow her into the tree, which had a spiral staircase carved into the trunk. They all climbed up, higher than the meeting house was set, and Dorian’s knees started to wobble by the time they reached the top.

“Are you ready?” asked an eager voice at the top. Dorian’s head emerged from inside the tree and he saw a brunette witch rapidly rubbing her palms together in excitement.

Nyx nudged Dorian’s ribs and said, “This is my favorite part of the plan.”

Dorian looked beyond the other witch and saw ropes strung through the trees off into the distance--and a harness dangling from them. He froze in alarm. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

“If you’re thinking ‘the most fun I’ve had in my short mortal life,’ then yes, it is,” said the brunette, bouncing on her toes.

“He’s never done something like this before, Livia,” said Nyx. She looked at him and said, “I’ll go first and wait for you on the other end. Just watch what I do.” Dorian eyed her as she strapped her waist and thighs into the harness and gave the ensemble a tug to test its security. Then she leapt off the edge of the platform--over the steep drop into the jungle below--and let out a gleeful holler as she soared through the trees, held up only by the ropes and straps. Soon she was a dark spot in the distance, and her cry faded into silence. A long, quiet minute passed before there was a sharp tug on the assembly, and Livia started wheeling back the harness from the other end.

“Trouble!” Kore cried, her voice echoing up from inside the trunk of the tree. Dorian heard a scuffle below.

Livia paled, but Dorian said, “Don’t stop!” She nodded and frantically pulled on the harness to bring it back.

Thundering footsteps sounded from within the tree, but the moment the first two witches appeared, Dorian had thrust out his raw magic to shove them back. Laurel, the one with dark braids, stumbled at the edge of the platform, but the platinum-blonde Kajsa grabbed her before she could fall. “Don’t you hurt my Third!” Dorian watched with ice in his blood as Kajsa lunged toward him, emanating arctic fury and slashing at him with a fierce blade. He erected a ward and her sword bounced away, but that did not stop her from jumping to his defense.

“Kajsa!” cried Kore, diving between them and engaging with her own set of weapons. It gave Dorian just enough room to retreat to the edge of the platform near Livia to breathe and focus. He didn’t want to kill any of the Crochans--that would only prove to them that they should fear him. So shoving them off the platform was not at all what he wanted. Still, he could keep them from doing more damage. He reached out his hand and caused rocks of ice to form around the feet of the three older witches who had made it up onto the platform. Calliope shrieked in fury and Kajsa swore as her hands, too, were encased in ice, weighing down her striking arm.

“Your Majesty!” Livia cried as she finally pulled the harness in. Dorian did not have time to figure out the straps by hand, but his magic instinctively reached out and secured the harness around him.

“Will you be all right?” he asked Livia and Kore.

“Oh, we’ve been in tougher scrapes than this!” Kore assured him, her grin terrifying.

“Just go!” Livia cried, and she shoved him off the platform.

Dorian’s scream ripped out of him before he could muster up the dignity to stop it, but soon the jungle air was whipping through his hair and coating his skin with humidity. He held for dear life onto the rope tying him to the line, and soon he saw the other platform in the distance. He saw Nyx there, waving frantically. “Just relax!” she shouted.

Then Dorian looked up and daw the giant net strung between trees. Though his body fought him, he forced himself to relax as he collided with the ropes and his speed decelerated. He bounced against the netting a bit, but soon he was being lowered down onto the platform.

“I heard screaming,” Nyx said with wide eyes as she helped him out of the harness. “Is everything all right?”

“Kajsa, Laurel, and Calliope caught up to us,” Dorian said. “No one was hurt. Kore and Livia said they’d be fine.”

Nyx bit her lip nervously and Dorian’s heart clenched in pity. “It’ll be all right,” he assured her, brushing her cheek with his fingers. “They’ll be fine.” He looked around at the quiet jungle. “Will we run into anyone else?”

Nyx shook her head. “This is where Granny lived. We always left her alone. And we’ve got a head start if we go now.” She nodded at the staircase carved into the tree, twin to the one on the other side of the line.

The staircase let out on the ground in a clearing, and Dorian could see a little house constructed out of earth and sticks and leaves, surrounded on every side by thick mangroves. A fire pit was positioned in front of it, and shoulder-high fences nearly encircled it. The jungle was eerily quiet here, and Nyx did not chatter as she led him inside. Dorian almost bumped his head on trinkets dangling from the ceiling, and he saw that every surface was covered in notes and vials. “What is all this?” he asked.

“When she’s not leading us, Granny does research,” Nyx explained. “She’s an expert on poisons and the plant life of Erilea. She’s loved it since before the Witch Wars. She says it’s the one thing that gives her hope that there will be peace again.” Nyx smiled wistfully. “‘People and kingdoms come and go, but the mangroves stay the same,’” she quoted. She gestured to a corner of the little house. “Here is her witch-mirror. It will take us to Briarcliff.”

Dorian nodded and approached the mirror. “Thank you, Nyx, for all that you’re doing. You don’t know me, but you’re giving up a lot.”

Nyx shrugged one shoulder, but Dorian could still see she was emotional. “I trust Granny,” she said. “She says you’re important. So you’d better prove her right.”

Dorian smiled gently. “I hope I do.” Then he leaned in and laid a feather-light kiss on young Nyx’s cheek. The surprised smile that lit her face was enough to warm Dorian’s iced-up heart before he tumbled forward into the witch-mirror.


	19. Chapter 19

 

Manon swore and leapt to her feet, drawing Wind-Cleaver and snarling commands at her coven as she darted over to Abraxos, who was already crouched and growling. She and her Thirteen were a well-oiled machine--they knew their roles, their battle formations. Manon ordered Vesta to take Aellai and Daeraya to a safe place to hide, and the witch obeyed without question.

Asterin mounted her blue mare beside Abraxos and flashed a wild grin at Manon. “Finally, a decent fight!” she crowed. Manon just grumbled and kicked her heels into Abraxos’s side, urging him to leap up into the air and take off into the incoming swarm of ilken head-on. She let out a feral scream as she charged, and her witches behind her all echoed the battle-cry.

Manon clung close to Abraxos as she lashed out an arm to slice open the belly of one of the ugly winged creatures. It shrieked and tumbled toward the ground, but Manon clenched onto Abraxos with her thighs as the wyvern reared back and seized two ilken by the throat, smashing their heads together before releasing them to drop to the hard earth below. A shadow fell over Manon’s head and she glimpsed an ilken swooping down over her, trying to snatch her off her saddle before Abraxos could right himself. She swiped Wind-Cleaver through the air and sliced off the ilken’s clawed toe, hissing as its blood showered over her, staining her moonlit hair with dark streaks.

Her world shook as an ilken collided with Abraxos, nearly shaking her loose and making them tumble through the air. Manon clung tightly to the pommel of her saddle and hunched down, keeping away from snatching claws and beating wings as Abraxos tucked his wings in tight and began to spiral downward through the air.

They broke past the cloud of ilken and Abraxos beat his wings steady, positioning them so Manon could observe the melee. Her witches were attacking with the ferocity that had earned them the respect of all the Ironteeth, using maneuvers that they had perfected decades ago, though they’d used brooms instead of wyverns then. The twins on their shadowy mounts darted amidst the ilken, slaying beasts and sending them falling like stricken geese out of the dark sky. Sorrel, Ghislaine, and Lin flew in tandem, herding ilken into a group so tight they could not stay airborne. As they plummeted, Lin shot arrows through their wings, maiming them if not killing them.

A fierce snarl sounded nearby and Manon looked up to see Asterin doing battle with a particularly oversized ilken. She dug her heels into Abraxos’s side and urged him upward until they flew at the same altitude as Asterin and her mare. “Asterin!” she cried, gesturing to her cousin. The blond witch observed the gap between them, bracing herself against the ilken’s onslaught. She unstrapped herself from her saddle and stood on her mare’s back, hardly keeping her footing as the ilken struck fierce blows. She narrowed her eyes in determined and then broke out into a run, stepping lightly across her mare’s outstretched wing and leaping across the open air between her wyvern and Abraxos’s spidersilk wing. Manon held her breath as her Second dove through the air, turning a tight somersault to control her trajectory. Her feet touched down on the tip of Abraxos’s wing, which was not strong enough to support her. Even as she began to drop off the edge, Abraxos gave his wing a flick and Asterin jumped, allowing her to make it further onto the reinforced wing and onto Abraxos’s back behind Manon.

The moment she’d been assured of Asterin’s safety, Manon had pulled out two knives and aimed them at the ilken still beating upon Asterin’s mare. Asterin eyed her Wing Leader’s hands, and soon knives met her palms as well. In unison, Manon and Asterin sent four daggers blazing through the air. They landed in the wing, the chest, and the thigh of the ilken--though one Asterin had thrown landed directly in the ilken’s face.

The beast shrieked and careened backward, releasing Asterin’s mare, who tucked in her wings and made an intelligent retreat.

“Take me to her, Manon!” Asterin pled, watching as her mare circled down to where Aellai and Daeraya hid.

“I still need you up here,” Manon argued. “She’ll be fine. Aellai will take care of her.”

Asterin’s nostrils flared like she wanted to argue, but there was no time before several more ilken came charging at them, claws extended. Abraxos circled backward, his wide wings creating some distance. “Want to try something?” Manon asked Asterin with a wicked glint in her eyes.

“Didn’t I just?” Asterin asked, gesturing to Abraxos’s wing.

“This is even better.” Manon bent down and whispered the command in Abraxos’s wing, and he growled with pleasure. Manon unstrapped herself. “Get ready to jump,” she told Asterin, fighting to keep her balance on Abraxos’s broad back.

“Again?” Asterin said, though a thrilled grin spread across her face.

“Have a sword ready,” Manon instructed. “On my count.” She waited and beat and then called off the count, and in tandem she and Asterin leapt off Abraxos’s back, their sunlight- and moonlight- hair whipping like flags above them. The earth was coming up too meet them too fast, but Manon trusted her mount. Sure enough, a shadow fell over them and soon Abraxos’s claws were gripping them gently from behind, lifting them back up into the air. Manon grunted at the change in trajectory, but braced herself as Abraxos picked up speed and changed direction, heading toward where Thea and Kaya were being assaulted by two more overgrown ilken. “On my call!” she said to Abraxos as he flew toward the ilken, whose backs faced them. “Now!”

Abraxos flared his wings out, coming to a halt just as he released his grip on both Asterin and Manon, who now flew through the air like projectiles, their swords ahead of them. Asterin shrieked in fierce delight, and Manon relished the satisfying crunch as their swords pierced the back of the ilken attacking their witches. The ilken roared with pain and jerked about, but Manon held tight to her sword. Heaving with her core, which was still not as strong as she would like after her injuries, she planted the soles of both her feet on the slick backs of the ilken and pushed, hearing her sword come loose with a satisfying squish.

The shove allowed her to backflip through the air, creating a cascade of blood as the ilken descended to the earth. As she soared backward, a serene smile crossed her lips at the pleasure of flying through the dark night, bloodshed incarnate.

Her reverse descent changed course as she twisted her body upright and sought her wyvern in the shadows below. Sure enough, Abraxos rose up to meet her, and Manon landed on his back, the impact jarring her knees. She happily sank back into the saddle, looking up to see that Thea had drawn Asterin up onto her wyvern.

Manon had lost count of the number of beasts they’d slaughtered, but the few who still survived had turned to retreat. Ghislaine, Sorrel, and Vesta fire arrows into the retreating crowd, but they did not linger to see if their arrows had hit their mark.

Letting out a roar of triumph, Abraxos circled back toward earth, and Manon bent over the pommel to catch her breath until her wyvern touched down on the ground once more. She inhaled once before sliding off, her legs quivering just once as she regained her footing. She looked out at her coven, frantically counting. Relief surged through her blue blood as she found that all of them were there--some with slight injuries, but none to devastate.

Asterin had run over to her mare, who had taken position guarding Aellai and Daeraya. Manon strode over as well, putting a congratulatory hand on her Second’s back.

“Wing Leader!” cried Ghislaine as the dark witch touched down. “You might want to see this!”

Manon went over to find that the ilken that had attacked Asterin was sprawled out on its back, one leg maimed and its face bleeding profusely. Yet, despite its dreadful injuries, it still breathed.

Manon wasted no time. “What were you doing out here?” she demanded, kicking the ilken’s injured leg.

“Looking for . . . the Crochan Queen,” spat the ilken.

“You found her,” Manon said, “unfortunately. Why were you sent?”

“The weapon . . . the weapon,” the ilken wheezed.

“Yes, the witch mirrors? What about them?”

“Not . . . enough . . . power.”

Manon hissed and twisted the knife in the ilken’s thigh, relishing its scream. “Where else are your brethren. Tell me, or I will make this last much longer.”

The ilken whimpered and threw its bloody face back, its ugly snout gaping with injury. “Frozen Wastes . . . going to Morla.”

Manon swore and twisted the knife again just to let out her ire. “Thank you for your help,” she said sardonically. Then she ripped the knife free and stabbed it through the ilken’s throat.

The sound of choking lingered only for a moment before the night was silent again. Manon stood straight and looked at all her witches. “My grandmother is looking for me,” she said.

Asterin was the first to step forward. “We will not let her find you.” Manon’s heart clenched at the fierceness with which her Second made the pledge.

“She will have to fight through all the Thirteen and their wyverns to get you,” Sorrel agreed, gripping the pommel of her sword with white knuckles. A familiar wave of anguish swept over Manon--she knew they meant it. But she also knew her grandmother. The Blackbeak Matron would rise to the challenge.

“We need to get to Morla as soon as possible. We’ll stop only when the wyverns need rest, but I want to be in Morla within the week if we can manage it. We’ll fly west, far from the Frozen Wastes so they can’t pick up our scent. When we get closer, we’ll split off in case the ilken are too close. Some of you can hold them off until I can rally the forces in Morla.” Manon flashed a vicious, bloody grin at her Thirteen. “Then we’ll make them rue the day they ever challenged the Crochans and Ironteeth together.”

The Thirteen let out a triumphant cheer before scattering to tend to their injuries and their wyverns and to retrieve any weapons they had lost. Manon watched them go, but when she turned to head back toward Abraxos, she saw Aellai standing in the moonlight watching her, the silver light annointing her dark hair. “What are you looking at?” Manon asked, though it came out less forceful than she’d intended.

The old Crochan only smiled. “I believe I am looking at a Queen.”


End file.
